


The Way We Live Now

by starlightandpinot



Category: The Book of Mormon - Ambiguous Fandom, The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Canon Divergent, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Healing and Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Shared Trauma, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:55:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 66,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24808885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightandpinot/pseuds/starlightandpinot
Summary: When Kevin and Connor endure a harrowing experience at the hands of the General, their already-unorthodox mission takes an unexpected turn.2/15:A note that this fic is not 'about' violence. The only violence depicted is in the first chapter & you can skip over it if you want. I don't think I properly clarified this when I first posted and wanted to explain about it now so that people understand. This fic is about coming of age, finding one's true self, religious crisis, falling in love, and healing.If you previously decided not to read it because of the violence in the beginning, I would encourage you to maybe just skip over that part and see if you like the rest. As I said, the fic is not 'about' violence. It isn't even solely about hurt/comfort or recovery as suffering through a violent ordeal does not encompass a person's entire being. Sharing a traumatic event is the vehicle that gets Kevin and Connor to talk/connect initially and while it does affect them, it is not the 'reason' they fall in love or develop a relationship.
Relationships: Arnold Cunningham/Nabulungi Hatimbi, Elder "Connor" McKinley/Kevin Price, Elder Church/Elder Thomas (Book of Mormon Musical)
Comments: 68
Kudos: 105





	1. Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! A note before you read that this fic is **CANON DIVERGENT** which means it does NOT follow the events of the musical starting with Kevin's "I Believe" number. From there on out, it does NOT follow canon. 
> 
> ~
> 
> All illustrations were made using a combination of Sims 4 and Reshade.

There are three basic tenets of being a District Leader that Connor McKinley gets beaten into him during his time at the Missionary Training Center: keep your shirt tucked in, go down with the ship, and _never_ abandon a member of your crew.

About a week into his training, however, he learns that those tenets have absolutely nothing to do with being a District Leader and that their instructor, Senior Elder Johnson, is just _really_ obsessed with Star Wars. Or Star Trek. One or the other. 

He thinks nothing more of Elder Johnson’s words after this, as there are countless other _actual_ doctrines and rules that Connor needs to memorize and agree to follow before being granted the much-sought-after title of _District Leader_. Things like what time the boys will need to be in bed each night (ten o’clock sharp) and how often he will need to report to the Zone Leader (every Friday evening) and how many hours per week they will be permitted to engage in recreational activities outside of studying scripture and proselytizing (no more than six hours). 

He memorizes the information he’s given, but doesn’t take any of it _too_ , too seriously. Because, other than drafting weekly reports and making phone calls to the Zone Leader, he’s told that his experience shouldn’t differ all that much from the other Elders. He’ll be in charge, yes, but it’s not like he’s going to have to _babysit_ them or anything. No, Connor is confident that all of the Elders assigned to his unit will be intelligent, reasonable, God-abiding missionaries, all of whom share a common objective: to preach the word of Heavenly Father and baptize new members into the Church.

The title of _District Leader_ , he assumes, will therefore end up being nothing more than a badge of honor. Something to be proud of, certainly, but in actuality will carry very little weight. He’ll be a figurehead; a regular Elder who just so happens to have a bit more paperwork to do on Friday nights and can make as many phone calls home as he darn well pleases. But other than a few superficial perks and a fancy title, he doesn’t really think much of it.

Until he’s sent to Uganda.

“We’re out of hot water again,” Elder Michaels whines, as though there’s anything Connor can do about it. The tone of his voice is grating. “Why is there never any hot water?”

“Beans, again?” Elder Neeley sighs. “I freakin’ _hate_ beans.”

“What if it’s malaria?” Elder Thomas says, then coughs. “Oh, yeah.” He coughs again. “It’s _definitely_ malaria.”

Elder Thomas’s hypochondria aside, the list of complaints goes on and on.

Lack of quality food, hot water for only five to ten minutes at a time, no washer or dryer, no access to proper medical care or pharmaceuticals, endless insect bites, and malaria scares are just a few of the issues plaguing their little group. There is also this lingering feeling of isolation, of being entirely on their own, that Connor hadn’t been expecting. The closest neighboring district is District Eight (and _close_ , meaning, over six hours away by bus). The Zone Leader is about ten hours south and the Mission President is in Kampala, over two day’s drive away. It’s enough to make Connor feel as though they truly are all alone out here; lost, adrift, floating aimlessly in a sea of darkness with no hope of rescue. 

He’s in over his head, and he knows it. 

But nothing makes Connor feel like a complete and total failure quite like their baptism count. 

_Zero baptisms_. They’ve been here for three months and they still have _zero_ baptisms.

One of the prime responsibilities of the District Leader is to interview and baptize prospective new entries into the Church, but he hasn’t even gotten to _do_ any of that, yet. Instead, he’s been spending most of his time consoling the other Elders in his group, trying to convince them not to quit or cry or have a breakdown. He reminds them, time and time again, that they must focus on their mission, above all else, and take time to appreciate all of the good things they were getting out of the experience. 

When they remind Connor that they have yet to get anything good out of the experience, he sighs inwardly and reiterates the spiel he’s been taught to give them; about their greater purpose as missionaries, and how the Mission President is counting on them to succeed. He recites inspirational passages from scripture and explains to them the importance of the task that Heavenly Father has entrusted them with.

But Connor, himself, is starting to disbelieve his own words, because no matter how hard he tries; no matter how many Sunday night Monopoly matches he organizes or how many times he bends the rules just a _tad_ to try and get the Elders to cheer up, nothing ever seems to get any better. It makes Connor feel as though he’s failed as the boys’ District Leader—the latest evidence of this phenomenon being Elder Price.

Elder Price. Where can Connor even begin to _start_ on Elder Price?

Well, for one: he’s _gorgeous_. Positively gorgeous. Not that Connor has _those_ kinds of feelings for guys. He doesn’t—not anymore—but any straight man with two eyes and reasonably clear vision should be able to appreciate the beauty that is Elder Price. His proportionate face, warm smile, soft, lightly-tanned skin…

Not that Connor has ever actually _touched_ his skin. Of course, he hasn’t. But it sure does look… _soft_.

Looks aside, however, Elder Price has been nothing but a pain in Connor’s behind ever since he showed up—what was it, only three days ago? He was supposed to change things around here by using those famed proselytizing skills of his and legendary charm to get the District some baptisms. Connor hadn’t expected him to get a _lot_ of baptisms, of course, but he sure as heck assumed he’d get at least _one_.

But instead of saving the district’s reputation—and Connor’s, by extension—and getting the villagers interested in the Church, Elder Price has done nothing but complain and whine and storm off in a tantrum, breaking about a dozen rules all in one shot. On his _second day_ , no less.

And, now, if what Elder Cunningham is telling him is true, the boy has run off yet _again_. Connor had expected Elder Price to be many things: smart, dashing, charismatic—perhaps even a little bit arrogant—but mentally-unhinged renegade with little regard for the rules certainly wasn’t one of them. Not if the Mission President’s assessment of him was correct.

“What do you mean he _isn’t here_?” Connor huffs, pushing past Cunningham as he darts for the boys’ bedroom. He stops short of the doorway, appalled to find the room empty yet again. He scoffs. The _nerve_ of this boy.

“This is the second time in three days he’s broken curfew,” Connor says to no one as he stomps back out into the living area, making a beeline for the phone. “Well, you know what? I’ve had enough of this. If he wants to be transferred so badly, then that’s just _fine_ by me.” 

He picks the phone off the hook and begins dialing the number of the Zone Leader when he feels the phone being yanked from his grasp.

“What are you doing?” Connor snaps, and tries to pull the phone back from a very distraught-looking Elder Cunningham.

“I just,” Cunningham stammers, and he looks so nervous that it actually serves to temper Connor’s anger a little. “Don’t you think we should at least wait and hear him out? He’s probably just upset because I rubbed it in his face about getting all those people interested in the Church.”

“I thought you two weren’t even speaking to each other,” Connor says, easing his grip on the phone. “And now you’re defending him?”

“No, it’s just… look, I know he’s been acting like a total dick, okay? Especially to me, but I think we need to at least hear him out, you know? I mean, before we go and tell on him to the Mission President and all.”

“Fine,” Connor sighs, and reluctantly hangs up the phone. “He gets _one_ more chance." He raises a stern finger. "And I mean _one_ more chance."

Elder Cunningham looks a bit frightened, but also relieved. "Thank you, Elder McKinley. I swear you won't regret this."

"I'll have a talk with him when he gets home," Connor says. "In the meantime, please try and get some sleep, okay? We have a busy week ahead of us.” He tries to give Cunningham a smile, but it ends up faltering a little. "Follow-ups and lessons and all that.” He places a hand to the boy's arm. “Goodnight, Elder Cunningham. Sleep well.”

“I will,” he nods and takes a step back towards his room, “Goodnight, Elder McKinley.”

Connor lets out a tired sigh as he takes a seat on the couch, where he plans to sit vigil all night until Elder Price returns home. He reaches over to the end table and pulls a fiction novel disguised as a scripture book into his lap. He doesn’t break many of the rules, but he’s always thought the one about no secular books or music was a bit overkill. He suspects the other Elders feel the same way, but keeps them hidden, regardless. He doesn’t want to go around setting a bad example or anything. 

“Hey, um, Elder—Elder McKinley?” He hears Cunningham’s voice, again, sneaking up behind him. Connor turns to find him hesitantly peering out of the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. His mannerisms tell Connor he must be feeling guilty about something, what with all his shifting around in place and the persistent fidgeting of his hands.

Connor almost feels bad for the boy, and so he does his best to speak gently. “What is it, Elder?”

“You don’t think he’d actually be stupid enough to confront the General, do you?” Cunningham asks, his face paling at the thought. "Elder Price, I mean."

“The _General_?” Connor gets a funny feeling in his chest. “Elder Price said he was going to confront the _General_?”

“Well, no, not—not exactly in those words,” the boy stammers, and Connor can tell just how worried he is. It’s written all over his face. “It’s just… remember when we were talking about General Butt… Butt-Naked and how everyone is so afraid of him, and then Elder Price said something about 'fixing it' and 'saving the village'.” Cunningham looks down at his feet for a moment, watching them shift around. “I don’t know, he just… he had this weird look in his eyes."

"He always has that look in his eyes," Connor deadpans, turning back to the novel in his lap. "It's called mentally unstable and probably needs medication."

"I'm, um… I'm serious about this, Elder McKinley," he says in a tone uncharacteristically soft. "You don’t think he’d actually be stupid enough to confront the General, do you? I mean, he isn’t _that_ stupid, right?”

“No, Elder Cunningham," Connor assures him with a small smile. “I don’t think he’s that stupid. He’s probably just hiding out somewhere, upset, like you said. I’m sure he’ll be home soon. Now, please try to get some sleep and leave the worrying to me, okay? I'm the District Leader. That's what I'm here for."

“Okay.” Cunningham affords him a weak smile. “Goodnight, again, Elder McKinley.”

“Goodnight.”

And, so, Connor stays up and waits—and waits and waits—for Elder Price to come bounding through the front door, probably in hysterics. He sits on the couch, forcing his eyes to stay open, just so he can pounce on him and give him a stern talking-to the moment he steps through the door.

But Elder Price never does step through the door. Connor eventually tries to fall asleep on the couch, but finds he can’t stay asleep for more than twenty minutes at a time without waking up from a nightmare, usually involving something gruesome and awful happening to Elder Price at the hands of the General. His sleep is light and fitful and every little noise wakes him up with a start. He goes in and checks the boys’ bedroom from time to time, hoping to find Elder Price sound asleep in his bed, but he only ever finds Elder Cunningham, sleeping next to one that is empty.

Connor doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s starting to get worried. He’s worried about the rule-breaking, stupidly arrogant, _gorgeous_ boy named Elder Price. He lays back down on the couch and closes his eyes for about the fiftieth time that evening, in a feeble attempt to sleep, but all he ends up seeing is a blurry memory of himself and Senior Elder Johnson.

 _“Being a District Leader is a lot like being a starship captain,” Johnson told him, over a pitiful lunch of mystery meat and green beans at the MTC. “And there are three basic rules of being a starship captain.” He looked deep into Connor’s eyes and began counting off with his fingers, “Keep your shirt tucked in, go down with the ship, and - most importantly -_ never _abandon a member of your crew.”_

The words don’t truly resonate with Connor until now. Elder Price _is_ a member of his crew and now he's all alone out there, somewhere, in the middle of an unfamiliar country, where it’s dangerous and people can all-too-easily get hurt. And no matter how many lines the boy may have crossed, no matter how many rules he's broken, no matter how many times he's ignored curfew, Connor knows he’s still responsible for the boy’s safety and well-being. He knows that. Which is why, at about one o'clock in the morning, Connor downs a glass of water, grabs a flashlight, and heads out into the dark in search of Elder Price. He doesn’t know what he’ll do once he finds him. Drag him home by the scruff of his neck, perhaps. Yell at him. Chastise him. Slap him in the face for being so reckless and stupid and making him stay up all night, worried and afraid.

Yes. Yes, to all of those things. That is, if Connor manages to find him alive and well.

 _Please be alive and well_.

* * *

It's nearly ten o'clock by the time Kevin gets to the General's camp and he spends far too much time pacing around outside, trying to psyche himself up for the task. He knows it's well past curfew, knows they aren't supposed to leave the living quarters after nine pm, but he has to try and get the General to convert. It's the only way to stop him from terrorizing the villagers, from ruining any chance they have at getting baptisms. And it's important to Kevin, that he be the one to do this. He tells himself he's doing it for the good of the group, because the Mission President is expecting a report in a few days and won't be pleased when he finds that the Elders of District Nine have completely failed in their mission.

But, secretly, he's doing this for himself, whether he wants to admit it or not. He can't let his miserable failure thus far define him. He needs to make his parents proud. Or, rather, God. He needs to make _God_ proud. But it won't hurt anything to make his parents proud, too. His father is counting on him. His mother is waiting to shower him with praise and affection. His siblings are dying to hear all about his adventures, his triumphs, his _heroism_. He has too many people counting on this—counting on _him—_ and he has to do what he has to do. God will protect him. That's what he tells himself, at least, as he closes his eyes and readies himself to walk a little further, to approach the camp. God will be on his side. He has to be. He just... _has_ to be.

But when Kevin finally works up the nerve to approach the camp, to speak to one of the guards, it doesn't take long for him to immediately regret his decision. He tries to get them to listen to him as he reads from the Book, tries to get them to hear what he is saying, but all they do is laugh at him, call him names, and put their _hands_ all over him as they drag him further into the camp.

-

“Please let me go,” he whispers to the large guard who has him pinned down against a table. It feels like hours have passed since he first entered the camp, but he honestly doesn't know what time it is or how long he’s been here or what they plan on doing with him. All he knows is a whirlwind of fear and agony, warring against one another to see which one of them Kevin can feel the strongest. There is a sharp pain shooting up and down his back from where the General had whipped him earlier and his stomach aches from where they had taken turns using him as a punching bag. 

And, yet, he keeps on praying—praying to God to save him, to stop this brutal assault on his person, to just let him _go_. He prays and prays with every blow to his abdomen and every whip to his back, but relief never comes. He doesn't know why they are doing this to him, doesn’t understand why anyone would _ever_ do this. All he knows is that he is petrified and shaking and wants to go home. Not back home to the mission house, but _home_ , to Utah.

“Look, you guys,” he musters out, blinking back the steady flow of tears that have been pouring out of his eyes ever since the General had first pushed him onto the table. He can barely breathe from the guard pressing into the back of his neck and there are splinters scratching at his skin. “I’m really sorry I ever came over here, okay? It was stupid and reckless and I really am very sorry, just please— _please_ let me go. And I promise, you’ll never have to see me again. Okay? You’ll never—”

But the guard cuts him off by lifting his head and slamming it back down against the table. It stings. They all laugh at the fresh sob that erupts from his throat as his cheek smacks against the wood. He can feel blood running down his face, probably from his nose. He squeezes his eyes shut as the guard pushes harder into the back of his neck, trying with all of his might to suppress another round of tears. 

It feels almost surreal, that something like this could actually be happening to him, only three days into his mission—the mission he’d been waiting to serve his whole, entire life. He still can’t understand it; can’t understand what it is that’s happening to him. He feels abandoned by God, abandoned by his fellow Elders, abandoned by the Church. But there is still a part of him that keeps on waiting; waiting to be woken up from this horrible dream, this nightmare; waiting to feel Elder Cunningham’s hand press against his shoulder, jolting him back to reality.

“What do you think of this one?” He overhears the General ask, presumably to one of his guards. 

The man answers in Swahili, and Kevin can’t understand a word he is saying. It makes him feel sick, not knowing what they plan on doing with him. A shiver crawls down his spine as another round of laughter fills the room. They are probably laughing at his expense, at whatever they have in store for him next, and the contents of his stomach surges up into his throat, threatening to make him vomit. He somehow manages to hold it down. He doesn’t want to give them anything else to laugh at.

A few moments later and the mood in the room seems to shift. Kevin can’t see much from his position against the table, but he can hear one of the guards shouting at the General in Swahili. It sounds different than it had before. Less jovial; more urgent and alarmed. Kevin can tell by the inflection in the man’s tone that something else is happening. Something other than Kevin. He then hears a ruckus coming from just outside the camp. Mens voices. Cursing. Shouting. The large guard who has been restraining him eventually relinquishes his grip on his neck and rushes out of the camp. The other guard soon follows suit, gun and baton at the ready, leaving Kevin hunched over the table, alone.

And then: a gunshot. It’s loud and piercing and makes him jolt upright from the table. He jerks back again when he hears one of the guards outside yelling, " _Hands in the air!_ "

It takes Kevin a moment to realize he's finally free from the man’s grasp. His body hurts. Everything hurts. But he needs to focus on the task at hand: getting the _Hell_ out of here. It feels nearly impossible to do with his heart thumping in his chest and the pounding in his ears and the tremors wracking his body, but he has to try. The guards are distracted, giving him the perfect opportunity to try and run off. It may be his only chance. He glances around the camp, eyes darting around to hopefully glimpse an opening of some sort that he can use to escape. As his vision comes into focus, he realizes the camp’s covering is made out of some sort of cloth material, like a large tarp. He can probably climb out underneath it, towards the back, and make a run for it. He's always been an excellent runner.

But just as he's about to make a break for it, he sees someone else entering the camp. It takes him a second to process who it is, but, once he does, his blood runs cold.

“Elder McKinley," he whispers to himself as the large guard once again grabs him by the shoulders and restrains him. He's too shocked by the sudden appearance of his fellow Elder to resist and the man easily pulls him back, away from the table. “ _Elder McKinley!_ " Kevin shouts, louder this time, so that the other man might hear him. " _Run!_ ” He screams at the top of his lungs. “ _Get out of here!_ ”

But Elder McKinley can't run. The General already has him by the scruff of his neck and is dragging him over to the same table where Kevin had just been held down only minutes before. Their eyes meet for the faintest of seconds before the General throws him face-first onto the table.

“Well, well, well, look who we have here?" The General grins as he pushes Elder McKinley's face into the wood. "Sissyboy decided to pay us a visit.” He then lifts his gun and presses it into the base of the boy's skull. “Long time, no see, huh, Sissyboy?”

A sharp cry erupts from Elder McKinley as the metal touches his skin, making Kevin jerk beneath the grip of the guard. He doesn't know what to do—what he _can_ do—but the General is running the gun over Elder McKinley's back, now, still with that repulsive _grin_ on his face. It twists Kevin's stomach, making it ache in strange and foreign ways. Another cry pierces his ears and he doesn't know where his courage comes from, doesn’t even realize he’s speaking at all until he hears his own words reverberating across the room. “ _Stop it!_ " His voice comes out all hoarse and broken as he struggles against the strength of the guard. " _L_ _eave him alone!_ ”

The General motions for one of the guards to restrain Elder McKinley as he stalks over to Kevin, looking annoyed as he presses the gun deep into his cheek. The metal is cold against his skin, drawing a sharp breath from the depths of his lungs. 

“Do you want to die?”

Kevin’s heart stills in his chest. He feels suddenly lightheaded, like he might actually faint. He can’t open his mouth to answer, can’t even think. All he knows is that he desperately does _not_ want to die.

“No... No, please, no," Kevin begs through tightly-clenched eyelids. He can feel a bit of runaway urine trailing down his leg. “Please, just… you don’t have to do this. You can let us go and I promise we’ll never bother you again.”

The General snorts at the plea and it takes Kevin a second to realize the gun is no longer pressing into his cheek. His eyes flutter open a moment later and his gaze immediately lands on Elder McKinley, who is now sobbing into the table, bent over in the same vulnerable position Kevin had been in not more than five minutes ago. He knows he needs to do something, something to stop this before it goes too far, but the large hands gripping tightly at his shoulders remind him that he, too, is helpless. 

An unfamiliar feeling wells in Kevin’s chest as he watches the General run a slow hand over the length of Elder McKinley's back. He does so tauntingly, and with a kind of feigned gentleness, going from the top of his light auburn hair, all the way down to his bottom. Elder McKinley flinches under the touch, begging him over and over to _please stop_ , and another swell of that unfamiliar _something_ wells in Kevin’s chest.

“How about this one?” The General asks, turning to one of his guards. There is an unsettling glint in his eyes that turns Kevin's stomach. “He looks like a virgin to me.”

The word catches Kevin completely off-guard and it takes him a second to process. Once he does, however, his body goes suddenly limp against the guard. An icy chill prickles at his skin as he replays the General's words over and over in his head. It's unlike the fear he felt earlier, when the men were beating him and laughing at him and calling him names. This fear is different. This fear is for Elder McKinley and what Kevin hopes— _prays_ —they are not planning on doing to him.

“ _No!_ ” Kevin screams when his fear is realized and one of the guards begins unzipping his pants, as if preparing to disrobe. Overcome with a renewed sense of courage, he tries to break free from the guard’s restraint, to help Elder McKinley, but all it does is make the guard tighten his grip. Kevin can barely see anything, now; his eyes burning from the steady fall of tears. 

He realizes, then, that the tears running down his face are no longer for himself, are no longer in response to the sharp pain shooting up and down his back or the dull throbbing in his abdomen. They are for the man in front of him, crying hysterically against a table with the General’s _hands_ all over him. They are for Elder McKinley, who shouldn’t even _be_ here in the first place. Why is he _here_? Kevin hadn’t meant for anyone else to get wrapped up in this. Nobody was even supposed to know about it. This whole thing had been Kevin’s mission, and Kevin’s alone. 

“ _No!"_ Kevin screams, again, when the General goes for Elder McKinley’s belt buckle. “ _You can’t do this!”_

But they do it, anyway, despite Kevin’s desperate pleas or the tears streaming down his face or the way he falls back into the guard’s chest with a loud, defeated sob. There is nothing else he can do, but stand there, useless and terrified and _weak,_ lips quivering under the hotness of his tears as he watches the General remove Elder McKinley’s clothes. First, his shirt, followed by his dress pants, and, finally, his temple garments. Kevin could honestly die, or vomit, or both. He hates himself, hates everything, and he just wants it to stop. _Please make it stop_.

“You are a virgin, are you not?” The General asks, running his gun through Elder McKinley’s hair. When the boy doesn't respond with anything other than another eruption of tears, the General presses the gun harder into his head. “I said, _are you not_?”

Elder McKinley manages a weak nod into the table, but a desperate, unfiltered sob quickly follows as the General trails the gun from his head, all the way down the bare skin of his back. 

“I have heard people say that the way to cure AIDS is by sleeping with a virgin.” The General removes his hands from Elder McKinley and motions for one of his guards to come over. “My friend here has AIDS,” he gestures to the rather gaunt-looking man, “And you," he runs another hand over Elder McKinley's back, "Are a virgin.”

“ _No!_ ” Kevin screams, once he realizes what’s going on, and tries ardently to fight his way out of the guard’s grasp. “He doesn’t deserve this,” he tries to plead, when his struggle against the restraint proves fruitless. He doesn’t know what else to do because he _can’t_ do anything, but he _has_ to do something. He's already failed once this evening. He can't fail again. “It was my idea to come here, not his. You can’t cure AIDS by sleeping with a virgin. That isn’t how it works. That isn’t how _any_ of this works. All this is going to do is hurt him. Can’t you see that?”

“Will you shut the fuck up?” The General shouts at him, waving his gun in the air. “You are starting to annoy me.”

And then the General gestures for the half-naked guard to move in on Elder McKinley and Kevin finds he can no longer breathe. His chest feels like it's being crushed by a thousand bricks and he just keeps on thinking that this can’t possibly be happening. It can’t be. Not in real life. Things this horrible don’t happen in real life, only in movies.

But it is happening. He knows it’s happening because there is blood dripping down his face and his shoulders ache from being held back by a very large man with a very large gun and, right in front of him, Elder McKinley is lying there, bent over a table, helpless and naked and crying, as though he isn’t even a person at all, but just a thing to be used. His heart-wrenching cries for mercy are the only sounds Kevin can hear, filling his ears as they echo throughout the room. He knows he needs to think of a way out of this, to help Elder McKinley, but his brain just won’t function. _Can’t_ function. Not like this. He can’t think. He feels too paralyzed and sick and shocked to think and there’s a pain in his chest, in his heart, that is unlike anything he’s ever experienced before in his life. He’s witnessed humiliation in mild forms before, such as seeing his peers get picked on in school, perhaps getting shoved into a locker or pelted in the face with a volleyball in gym class, but nothing like this. This is unthinkable.

He lets out an unidentifiable noise as he watches the guard move in closer to Elder McKinley. He’s only inches away from him, now, and Kevin knows he has to help him. He _has_ to. There is no choice. He doesn’t know Elder McKinley very well, but he knows he doesn’t deserve this. No one does.

As the guard grips onto Elder McKinley’s bare hip and presses himself against him, a burst of adrenaline shoots through Kevin's veins. This is his last chance. His last chance to put an end to this before it's too late. He doesn’t know what to do, all he knows is that he needs to do _something_ , and so he just _screams_. He screams loud and piercing and terrifying and _shrill_ and it’s enough to startle both the guard hovering over Elder McKinley and the one who has been restraining him. The guard’s grip on his shoulders falters a little from the shock of the sudden high-pitched screech and Kevin uses the opportunity to elbow him hard in the gut. The man’s gun falls to the ground and Kevin, guided only by a burst of sheer lunacy and a deep-rooted survival instinct, lunges and grabs the fallen gun and holds it up in front of the guard’s face. Defenseless, now, without his gun, the man raises his hands in surrender. 

“Let him go,” Kevin turns and demands of the General, but when he doesn’t say anything in reply, Kevin screams louder. “I said _let him go!_ ” His hands are shaking uncontrollably, the gun trembling in sync with each violent tremor, but he still manages to wiggle the gun in the direction of the defenseless guard’s face to prove his point. “Let my friend go _right now_ , or I will kill this man.”

But instead of backing down or showing any amount of fear, the General just laughs at him. It’s the same way he laughed at him earlier; that sickening, taunting grin still glued to his face. 

“You know what, white boy?” He says in a mocking tone, his laughter subsiding as he steps away from the table. “I do not believe you would kill anyone. You are a _pussy_ and I am not afraid of pussies.” 

He says the words, but pulls the afflicted guard away from Elder McKinley, regardless, before he has the chance to go through with the deed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Kevin feels relieved at this, but the situation is too dire, too ludicrous, to properly give the feeling any real thought.

Muttering something to his guards, they all move back a little and the General takes a seat on what can only be described as a makeshift throne. He stares Kevin down for a long, long moment, as though contemplating what to do with him. 

Kevin isn’t sure how much longer he can keep up this charade of bravery. The sweat is pouring into his eyes, burning them, and he can’t really see straight. His heart is threatening to beat out of his chest and his tremors are getting more violent with every second that passes, so much so that he isn’t even sure the bullet would hit the correct target, should he be forced to fire. He tries once again to steady the gun in his hands, to try and make himself look more confident and menacing than he actually is, but the gun just keeps on trembling in tune to his shaking body. The room is still filled with the sound of Elder McKinley’s cries, but his ears are so ballooned up from stress that they sound sort of distant.

The General’s maniacal grin slowly falls into a frown. “You two are no longer amusing me.”

Kevin blinks. Does that mean what he thinks it means? Are they home free? 

“What, um,” Kevin stammers, his tone sounding significantly less confident than before. “What does that mean?” 

“It means you have _five seconds_ to get the _fuck_ out of here,” the General warns through narrowed eyes. “After that, I never want to see you again. _Ever_. Go back to America or wherever the Hell you came from. And leave the gun outside, unless you are looking for us to pay you and your friend a little _visit_ tomorrow."

The blood rushes back to Kevin’s head at the General’s words. They can go. He’s letting them _go_. 

He can’t see very well, but he moves quickly in the direction of Elder McKinley’s cries. They sound louder, now, and when Kevin finally wipes the tears from his eyes and takes in the sight of him, his heart squeezes in his chest. The other man’s face is red and scrunched and swollen against the table. Desperate gasps for air hitch in his throat between each wretched sob, and he still isn’t _moving_. He isn’t making any move to stand, even though the General just said they could make a run for it. He's still just lying there, hunched over the table, looking both lifeless and hysterical at the same time.

Keeping the gun trained on the guard, Kevin inches towards him and rests a gentle hand atop his shoulder.

“One,” he hears the General begin counting.

“We have to go,” Kevin says, shakily, and lightly jostles his shoulder. He tries to do so as gently as possible, he really does, but the situation is rather dire. He blinks back an onslaught of tears as he gazes down at Elder McKinley's nearly-unrecognizable face, waiting for a response that doesn't come. Rapid breaths are still catching in his throat, one after the other, under a steady stream of tears. They've formed a pool atop the table, where his small, pale hands are still gripping at the wood. The sight hurts Kevin in a way he’s never been hurt before in his life, and it’s almost enough to make him forget all about the General or his guards or the fact that they only have five seconds to make a run for it.

“Two…”

“Come on, we really have to go,” Kevin says, louder and more insistent this time, but the other man still doesn’t make any move to stand. Kevin honestly isn’t certain, now, if Elder McKinley can even hear him. He remembers that feeling—the feeling of being so terrified for his life that his ears had actually clogged up and the ringing and pounding just wouldn’t stop. “ _Elder McKinley_ ,” he tries again, but the other man doesn't seem to hear him.

“Three…”

Kevin doesn’t want to—he _really_ doesn’t want to, considering the circumstances—but he has no choice. Keeping the gun pointed at the guard, he grabs Elder McKinley’s garments off the floor, where they had been carelessly discarded. They are completely soaked through, but Kevin doesn’t have time to think about that right now. He briefly considers putting the garments back on him, to cover him up, but the General has just counted to _four_ and they need to get the _fuck_ out of here.

In a panic, he hastily wraps an arm around Elder McKinley’s upper back, underneath his arms, and forcibly lifts him up from the table. Kevin expects him to jolt away from the touch, to resist the movement, but he doesn’t. He just lets out a particularly painful sob and falls limply into Kevin’s side, allowing himself to be led out of the camp.

Kevin has no idea if the General finishes counting or not. The only thing he can hear are Elder McKinley’s languished cries against his side and the clap of the large flap of canvas slapping them in the head as they exit.

-

 _We’re out_. Kevin lets out a deep sigh as they make it a few feet away from the camp. _We made it_.

He doesn’t want to, but he knows he needs to throw the gun back before they go any further. He doesn’t know if the General would actually make good on his threat to show up and collect the gun from them tomorrow, but he doesn’t want to risk it. He _can’t_ risk it. Not after this. And, so, balancing a hysterical McKinley against his side with one hand, he throws the gun back towards the camp with the other. The feeling of relinquishing the weapon petrifies him and he’s once again left with a sinking feeling of helplessness and vulnerability.

He tries to run, but the constant pain shooting up and down his back and the weight of Elder McKinley crashing into his side are making it rather difficult. Kevin wants to be gentle with him, considering what he’s just been through, but he also knows they need to run and they can't run like this. Not all the way back. The village is just over a mile away and the mission house is even further, nearly two miles away. 

Gripping Elder McKinley a bit tighter against his side, he clumsily leads them into the bush, where he hopes the trees will act as a shield in case the guards do decide to come looking for them. They crash down against a tree trunk in a small clearing, Kevin’s arm still wrapped around the back of Elder McKinley’s shoulders as they make their way down. Kevin pulls the man’s trembling body into his side the moment they hit the ground, angling his head so that it can burrow into his chest. 

Kevin knows he needs to think, to formulate a plan, but his heart rate is finally slowing down and he takes just one moment to close his eyes and lean back against the tree trunk. He draws in a deep breath, the first he has in several hours, possibly even several days. He knows they need to run, knows they need to get as far away from here as humanly possible, but in order to do that he also knows he needs to “wake” Elder McKinley up, so to speak, and he has absolutely no idea how to go about it. 

Turning over onto his side, he reluctantly opens his eyes and looks down at Elder McKinley, taking in the sight of the man’s crumpled form. He looks uncharacteristically small like this, curled up against his side—the side of a virtual stranger—hands balled into fists around clumps of Kevin’s dirtied white dress shirt. His eyes are still clamped shut, as they have been ever since he was forcibly pressed face-down into the table and he can’t seem to take even one breath without a sob erupting from his throat. His body is still convulsing. Kevin knows this by the way each tremor reverberates right into him; past his skin, past his muscles, and straight into his core. 

He goes to place a comforting hand to Elder McKinley’s arm, to try and explain to him what they have to do, when he realizes he’s still clutching onto the other man’s soaking wet garments. He stares down at them for a second and blinks, thinking once again how entirely unreal this situation is. He keeps expecting to be jostled awake by Elder Cunningham, to be pulled from this awful nightmare, to find himself startled and sweaty in his uncomfortable twin bed. But he’s been waiting for hours, now, and he’s yet to be jostled awake. 

He slowly releases his grip on Elder McKinley’s soiled garments and stretches out his fingers. They ache. His other hand aches, as well, from where he had been gripping the gun earlier. Loosely clutching the garments, he shifts a little against the tree trunk, so that he can properly assess Elder McKinley’s state.

It’s only when his eyes come into full focus that he realizes the other man is naked. Kevin has never even seen his own father naked before and now this man, this person he doesn’t even know very well, is leaning up against him, naked and broken, unravelling before his eyes, and he has absolutely _no_ idea what to do. He wants to help him. He wants to fix this. He wishes he could go back in time and erase it all from existence, but he can’t. He feels powerless and scared and entirely unequipped.

His hands tremble as he places the garments over Elder McKinley's lower half, to try and maintain some semblance of decency. He then shakes his head, remembering that they aren’t yet safe. They need to _move_.

“You’re okay,” Kevin tries to soothe in the softest whisper he can manage. “We’re okay. But we have to go.” His chest tightens a little as another sob explodes out of Elder McKinley and he tries to muster out his next words, despite the unwanted feelings welling in his chest, the tears brimming in his eyes. It doesn’t work very well, however, as his voice cracks and wavers as he struggles to say them. “We can’t stay here. We have to go.”

But Elder McKinley doesn’t answer. He seems paralyzed, still, from the shock of it all. Kevin bites down on his lip and runs a gentle hand down McKinley’s arm, in hopes that it will calm him down. Shifting his gaze upward, he looks out through the small clearing, through the space between the trees. He can see the General’s camp in the distance, lit with torches and kerosene lamps, shadowy figures walking around outside. He knows they can hear Elder McKinley’s cries. Kevin is sure of it. They are loud and not that far away. 

They have to get out of here. They have to get out of here _now_.

When he averts his eyes from the camp and looks back down at Elder McKinley, a low gasp escapes his lips as his eyes land on the other man's feet.

He isn’t wearing any shoes. Kevin blinks a few times as he stares down at the other man’s feet, trying to digest this latest wrench to his plan. Elder McKinley isn't wearing any _shoes_. They must have left them back at the camp.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Kevin shouts, closing his eyes and grabbing violently at his hair with his free hand. It’s only the second time he’s ever said the word in his entire nineteen years of life, but he doesn’t really care. Elder McKinley will never be able to run back without shoes. Not without tearing up his feet. It’s not possible. Not in this terrain. It’s at least a mile to the edge of the village and then another mile to the house. But they _have_ to run. There is no other option.

“Okay.” Kevin lets out a deep exhale. “Okay." He nods, mostly to himself, and relinquishes the grip on his hair. “You can do this.”

He says the words, to try and convince himself that he can, in fact, do the impossible, but he honestly isn’t sure if he can pull this off. His face is swollen from being smashed into the table earlier and his back stings from where the General had whipped him. His torso hasn’t stopped throbbing since the General’s men had taken turns beating him. His ribs ache. Everything aches. He doesn’t think any bones are broken, but there is blood soaking through his shirt and he’s sure that when he looks in the mirror later, he will find dark black and blue splotches all over his body.

But he _has_ to do this. He has no other choice. He can deal with the rest later. Right now, they have to run.

Keeping a firm grip around Elder McKinley’s shoulders, Kevin awkwardly slides his other arm underneath the backs of the man's knees and attempts to lift him up. His back feels as though it's being snapped in half as he struggles to stand beneath the weight. It’s piercing and sharp and unlike any physical pain he’s ever experienced before, but he manages to power through long enough to stand upright. The movement seems to startle Elder McKinley, however, evident by the panicked gasp he lets out as Kevin lifts him.

“Trust me,” Kevin whispers into Elder McKinley's ear when he begins wriggling around in his arms. He tries his best to speak gently, to sound somewhat soothing, but the words just come out all strained and broken. Kevin isn’t even sure how he can speak at all when his back feels like it's being assaulted with bags of cement, but he has to try and make him understand. 

“It’s me,” Kevin says, once he realizes that Elder McKinley might not know. “It's Elder Price." He pauses a moment, struggling as the man in his arms fights to break free. "I'm gonna get us out of here, but you have to trust me, okay?" He winces a little under Elder McKinley's weight, and tries to block out the pain. "Please," he softens his tone, trying to sound as sincere and desperate as possible, "You have to trust me." 

Elder McKinley doesn’t answer Kevin’s plea, doesn’t even open his eyes, but a few moments later and there are a pair of hands gripping tightly at the back of his neck, telling him all he needs to know.

Adjusting Elder McKinley’s weight against his chest, Kevin takes one more look back at the General’s camp, at the silhouettes of the guards in the distance, wandering around outside. He can hear the faint sound of laughter, echoing throughout the otherwise quiet of the woods. It gives Kevin all the strength he needs to run.

Well, perhaps _run_ is an overstatement, but he does manage a rather brisk hobble. Elder McKinley’s body bounces up and down in his arms with every step he takes, sending spikes of excruciating pain down his legs. His knees keep on buckling underneath him and he struggles not to drop Elder McKinley. He _can’t_ drop him. He can’t stop running, either. Their lives depend upon it—depend on _Kevin_.

He thinks back to his days on the track team as he hobbles along, wincing and gasping with every step. There is this trick his coach had taught him, back in high school, that he’d use whenever they were about to win a championship, but he had already run too many miles and the pain was nearly unbearable. He’ll take any trick he can get, even if it doesn't work, and so he begins playing his favorite hymn in his mind as he runs, forcing himself to think only of those words. He plays it over and over again, filling his head with the comforting words and the gentle, melodic strumming of guitar that accompanies them on his favorite version of the song.

> _Where can I turn for peace?_
> 
> _Where is my solace?_
> 
> _When other sources cease to make me whole?_
> 
> _When with a wounded heart, anger, or malice,_
> 
> _I draw myself apart,_
> 
> _Searching my soul?_

Pain doesn’t exist, he tells himself as he runs. His body is just a machine. A machine that needs to keep on _running_. It’s just one mile back to the edge of the village. Not even. He can do one mile. He’s done much more than that. And pretty soon it will be three-quarters of a mile and then a half a mile and then they will be almost home.

Bullets of pain shoot up and down his spine, getting more angry and insistent with every step. His legs wobble. His mouth is dry. His arms have gone numb. But he has to push it aside. He _has_ to. And so he keeps on playing the song.

> _Where, when my aching grows,_
> 
> _Where, when I languish,_
> 
> _Where, in my need to know, where can I run?_
> 
> _Where is the quiet hand to calm my anguish?_
> 
> _Who, who can understand?_

He only knows he hasn’t yet dropped Elder McKinley by the warm hands squeezing at his neck and the low cries being let out into his ear. The sound hurts him, but he needs to keep on running. It’s their only chance. He has to run and he can’t stop running until they reach the village. They can deal with the rest later. They only have a half a mile left to go. Only half a mile. A half mile is nothing. Kevin has done a half mile on only two hours sleep and a belly full of his mother’s buttermilk pancakes. He tries to ignore the pain, telling himself he can’t even feel it. Pain doesn’t exist. It isn’t real. He doesn’t feel it. And forces himself to concentrate on the hymn.

> _He answers privately,_
> 
> _Reaches my reaching_
> 
> _In my Gethsemane, Savior and Friend._
> 
> _Gentle the peace he finds for my beseeching._
> 
> _Constant he is and kind,_
> 
> _Love without end._

He eventually sees the village in the distance and his heart practically soars. He slows down his pace as they enter the familiar clearing. It’s only then that he realizes his arms are vibrating from the weight of Elder McKinley pressing into them and he stumbles a little as he trips over a tree root. He needs to stop. He needs to rest. They still have another mile to go before they reach the mission house and he won’t be able to go the remainder of the way without recuperating first. 

They fall down in front of a tree, near someone’s hut, only a few yards into the village. The area looks familiar to him. He thinks Mafala Hatimbi, the nice man who helped them the day of their arrival, lives right around here somewhere. He takes in a deep breath and wills his shaking arms to push himself up, enough so that he can turn onto his side and look down at Elder McKinley, whose eyes are still closed, though most of his face is buried into Kevin's chest and his fists have resumed their earlier position, balled tightly around clumps of Kevin’s bloodied shirt. Kevin reaches out and places a tentative hand against his arm, squeezing it a little to try and get him to look up, to meet his eyes, but he doesn’t. His cries have begun to simmer down just a little, though, and Kevin takes a moment to adjust the garments laying across the other man's lap, so that he'll be completely covered up when he does open his eyes. He doesn’t want anything else to startle him or make him feel more embarrassed or humiliated than he probably already does.

Several realizations wash over Kevin as he sits there, running what he hopes is a soothing hand up and down Elder McKinley’s arm. The first being the fact that they are alive. They are _alive_. And that is more than Kevin could have ever hoped for, considering the situation they were just in not more than thirty minutes ago.

But then a second realization hits him immediately after, along with a swath of agonizing guilt.

 _It’s my fault_ , he tells himself, hot tears burning his cheeks and a million unwanted thoughts slipping in and out of his head. Elder McKinley would have never gotten wrapped up in all this if Kevin hadn’t taken it upon himself to confront the General in the first place. He would have been safe at home, sound asleep in his bed, next to Elder Thomas. He wouldn’t have been _here_ , chasing after Kevin on his ridiculous fool’s errand.

Kevin has trouble processing this realization; the realization that his overwhelming desire to succeed, to gain the approval of his parents and notoriety among his peers, had nearly caused one of his fellow missionaries to get _raped_ , to be given _AIDS_. It’s a paralyzing realization, and it’s enough to make his chest tighten and his breathing stop, all over again. 

_I caused this_ , he tells himself, in near disbelief, as he stares down at Elder McKinley’s crumpled body, dripping tears onto the man’s dirtied auburn hair. _I did this_.

It’s enough to make him start to dry heave, the knowledge that he is responsible for causing this amount of unimaginable pain in another human being; the fact that he had nearly gotten someone _killed_. He’s been here for less than a week. Less than a _week_. And already so much has happened. He’s been forced to watch on as the General terrorizes the villagers, watched him shoot a man right in the face, forced to walk home with the dead man’s blood all over him. He’s been humiliated; stripped of his pride, his dignity, forced to watch on as Elder Cunningham racks up the baptisms and the prestige—the prestige that was supposed to be _Kevin’s_. And, now, this. 

But _this_. This is different. This is so, _so_ different. This is _real_. More real than the Church or his parents' approval or his dwindling faith or any amount of prestige. This is unimaginably, painfully _real_. 

Another surge of guilt rushes through Kevin’s body, crushing whatever last bit of hope he had left, and it’s too much for him to handle, and so he selfishly reminds himself that at least he saved him. At least he rescued Elder McKinley from the General’s wrath. He has never been very brave in the past. Not by a long shot. He doesn’t even have it in him to kill spiders, for goodness sakes. That's always been his brother’s job. But, today—today, Kevin had risen up. Today, Kevin Price was brave. And that knowledge is enough to quell a very small amount of the overwhelming ocean of guilt threatening to make him throw up.

A third realization then washes over him; the realization that Kevin had not been the only brave one that evening. 

_He came after me_ , Kevin thinks as another tear worms its way out of his eye. _He risked his_ life _for me_.

It's entirely possible that Kevin would have been... that what they were going to do to Elder McKinley, would have happened to him, if the other man hadn't come after him. Kevin honestly doesn't know where he would be right now, if he hadn't.

Kevin is profoundly touched by this, and grateful, and honestly a little surprised. He and Elder McKinley haven’t exactly gotten along swimmingly thus far. But Kevin knows that Elder McKinley is under a lot of pressure; that there is a burden pressed into his shoulders that the other Elders do not carry. And he knows that their abysmal baptism count will get him in trouble, eventually, once the Mission President finds out. There will be shame. There will be talking-tos. There will be calls home. They might even replace him altogether, by sending him away to another District or by demoting him to a junior Elder. But Kevin hadn’t really cared about any of that, hadn’t really cared about _Elder McKinley_ , until now. He had only been concerned with himself, with proving himself to everyone—with proving that _he_ can be the one to turn things around. Because he is Elder Price, and Elder Price can do anything.

That’s what everyone’s been telling him his whole life, anyway, that he was _born for this_. That Heavenly Father has blessed him with the ability to grow the Church’s membership. It had never really crossed his mind, until very recently, that perhaps none of that is true. That perhaps the Church has been filling his head with these notions, these lies, simply to use him, to manipulate him into growing the Church's numbers. He doesn’t want to think any of these things because he’s usually so _good_ at pushing them aside, pushing aside the _doubts,_ but the longer he stays here, in Uganda, where reality keeps on splashing him in the face without mercy every chance it gets, the thoughts just won't stop nagging at him. He swears he can actually _feel_ his faith slipping away from him, sometimes. He honestly thought this would be it, that getting the General to convert would put him back on the right track, but it didn’t. All it did was cause him pain. And this time he hadn’t just hurt himself. He hurt Elder McKinley, too. Perhaps not so much physically, but mentally… well, that’s another story, entirely.

“Elder McKinley,” Kevin whispers through a shaky exhale, and runs a gentle hand down his arm. He doesn’t want to force him to respond, but he doesn’t know what else to do. “Elder McKinley,” he says, again, in an even softer voice, accompanied by a light squeeze of his shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

The man in his arms still doesn’t answer or open his eyes, but his cries have gotten noticeably quieter since they’ve sat down by the tree. Kevin takes that as a good sign. 

As he tries to sort out what his next move should be, he absentmindedly unfurls one of Elder McKinley’s hands from the clump of Kevin’s shirt he’s been clutching onto this whole time. He links their fingers together and gives the other man’s hand a squeeze. He doesn’t expect this to be the thing that finally snaps Elder McKinley out of his panicked state, but his eyes unexpectedly flutter open a few seconds later, revealing a pair of terrified blue eyes. 

_Blue_. His eyes are _blue_. They are a striking, brilliant blue, actually, and Kevin isn’t quite sure how he’s never noticed that until now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this first chapter, even though I know it's very sad right now. There will be lots of growth/comfort/love to come and I don't have any further violence planned for the rest of the fic. **A disclaimer before you comment that I am not very experienced at writing violence or action!!! I do apologize if any of this came off as gratuitous or "too much", as that was NOT my intention.** I only included the violence because it diverges pretty significantly from canon, but I do sincerely apologize if it didn't come off as intended.


	2. Harbor

Kevin takes in a hard swallow as he gazes down into Elder McKinley’s eyes. He can see several emotions swimming around within them. Fear. Distress. Confusion. Embarrassment. And they just look so petrified and sad and shaken and _blue_ that Kevin finds himself at a loss for what to say. What can he possibly say? 

He has never been very good at dealing with feelings and emotions and things like that, not even under normal circumstances, let alone.. _this_. It was one thing to be brave earlier, back when he _had_ to be. Back when he had no choice but to lift Elder McKinley into his arms, to carry him as he ran, no matter how much it hurt, the rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins willing his body to move; a kind of primal, mind over matter, fight or flight response. 

But, now. Well, now, he is at a loss. He had all kinds of words planned. Words he was going to say when Elder McKinley finally opened his eyes and looked up into his own. Words of comfort and reassurance and apology. Especially apology. Words like _it’s okay_ and _we’re safe now_. _Everything’s alright_ and _I’m sorry_. _I am so, **so** sorry_.

But they all feel so inadequate, now. _I’m sorry_ , especially, because how can Kevin ever properly convey to this person, to Elder McKinley, how unbelievably sorry he is? How his stomach aches with regret, a pain more raw and intense than any bruise he’s ever gotten in his life? The answer is he can’t. Because no matter how many words he comes up with, no matter which way he strings them into a sentence, to try and apologize, it will never feel like enough. 

He wishes he had the courage to say _something_ , however— _anything_ —because Elder McKinley turns away from him no more than a second later, breaking their fleeting moment of eye contact. Kevin feels the absence of it immediately, his heart pulling a little in his chest as he watches Elder McKinley recoil in on himself yet again; at the way his confused eyes flicker around at their surroundings, at Kevin, and then finally down at himself; his dry, chapped lips quivering under a rain of tears as he looks down at his lap, at the garments Kevin had laid across it earlier, to cover him up.

The sight seems to cause Elder McKinley a new surge of distress, of embarrassment, as he begins shaking his head over and over again, trembling hands clutching desperately at the damp, dirtied cloth. His frightened blue eyes retreat back into his skull a moment later, hidden once again behind his eyelids. He digs his heels into the dirt, leaning back further into the tree, as if trying to disappear into it. Another swath of agony hits Kevin right in the chest as he watches Elder McKinley curl up into the fetal position against the tree, his shaky, pale hands wrapping tightly around his calves as he brings his knees up to his chin. A raw, unfiltered sob explodes from his throat as he buries his face between them.

“Sorry, I just…” Kevin stumbles over his words. He’s trying his best to keep it together, to hold back the tears, but he can’t help but feel as though he’s made yet another grave mistake. “I didn’t have time to put them back on you.. at the camp. And then after that, I just.. I didn’t… I didn’t know if you’d even _want_ me to.. to do that. For you. And so I just… I put them over you, to cover you up. I’m.. I'm sorry,” he stutters, not knowing what else to say. “I just. I didn't know what to do.”

He trails off once he realizes his words are making Elder McKinley even more distraught, his body involuntarily convulsing with every sob he lets out into his knees. Kevin swallows the lump in his throat as he watches on, overwhelmed by the ever-present feeling of inadequacy, of not knowing what the Hell it is that he’s supposed to be doing; how he can fix this, even just a little bit. Even the most miniscule fraction of a bit.

“I’ll turn around,” Kevin finds words through a shaky breath. Leaning against the tree trunk for leverage, he shifts around to face the clearing. “So you can put them back on, okay? Take all the time you need.”

He winces in pain as he turns over onto his side, the constant, throbbing ache in his ribs not letting up in the slightest. If anything, it only seems to be getting worse. He isn’t even sure he’ll be able to stand back up, once it comes time to resume their dreaded trudge back to the mission house. And he sure as heck won’t be able to lift Elder McKinley. Not again. It simply isn’t possible. It hadn’t been possible earlier, either. Not until the need to run for their lives overtook his body and made it possible. But the adrenaline has mostly worn off, by now, and Kevin can barely even turn onto his side without his eyes watering up, his entire body flinching under the pain.

Elder McKinley’s cries do not let up as Kevin stays turned away, but the rustling and shifting coming from behind him lets him know he understood Kevin’s words, that he is working to put his garments back on. When the rustling eventually subsides, and a warm, shaky hand presses into the back of his shoulder, Kevin tentatively ventures back around. Their eyes meet for a split second before Elder McKinley closes his once again and collapses into Kevin’s side with a seemingly involuntary explosion of tears. Kevin whispers something into his ear as he wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close, his heart pumping so hard in his chest that he doesn’t even know what comes out of his mouth. He quickly laces their fingers back together between them with his other hand, the same way he had before. Squeezing his hand seems to be the only thing that helps to calm him down, and Kevin will take anything he can get. 

He loses sight of Elder McKinley’s face after a while, as it retreats further and further into the crevice between his chest and arm, and Kevin honestly isn’t sure how they are going to manage going any further. He knows he can’t carry Elder McKinley again, but he doesn’t know if it's safe to sleep here, either, out in the open like this. The huts surrounding them are familiar, providing him with a false sense of comfort, but just a few yards away is also where he had witnessed that man getting shot in the face just yesterday. Where Kevin had been sprayed from head to toe with the dead man’s blood. It’s where he and Elder Cunningham had preached to the villagers, spouting words from the gospel he isn’t even sure he believes in anymore. It doesn’t seem possible, that so much could happen in the span of just three days, but it has. It’s enough to cloud his eyes with tears. Not that they have ever really stopped since the camp. They’ve been ebbing and flowing in waves without ever _really_ stopping.

He doesn’t know how long he’ll need to rest here before attempting to stand up again. All he knows is that the longer he sits here, the worse the pain seems to get, and he honestly isn’t sure, anymore, if he’ll be able to make it the rest of the way back. Least of all while carrying a trembling, distraught, shoeless Elder McKinley. 

-

As if things weren’t already bad enough, it begins to rain. And not just a little rain, but a torrential downpour. Elder McKinley lets out a particularly languished sob into Kevin’s side as mother nature unleashes its unwelcome assault, their bodies going from dry to soaking wet in a matter of seconds. 

Uganda has very strange weather patterns, Kevin has learned over the past few days. During the day, the thermometer might _say_ eighty degrees, but it _feels_ like a hundred and one beneath the blazing sun, and the sunless nights can get rather cold, chilling them straight to the bone.

Kevin uses all the strength he has left to will his aching body to a standing position, his legs threatening to buckle underneath him as he helps Elder McKinley to his feet. They huddle together for warmth, both of them shivering under the iciness of the rain. Elder McKinley’s tremors had finally simmered down somewhat, before the sky opened up and pummeled them with rain; but now his convulsions, his cries, have returned with a vengeance, intensifying in tandem with the increasingly violent downpour. It's been over an hour since they’ve escaped the camp and Elder McKinley has yet to utter a single word. The only communication Kevin has gotten from him thus far has been the vice-like grip on his hand. Kevin makes sure to keep them intertwined, clasped tightly between them, as he leads their pathetic hobble towards one of the huts, to try and seek shelter beneath the overhang of someone's roof.

-

They’ll never be able to walk home like this, Kevin thinks as he leans back against the outer wall of the nearest hut, staring out at the thousands of droplets of rain falling down around them, blocking out most of the view. It had barely been possible before, back when the wind chill was tolerable and they could actually _see_ five feet in front of them; when there wasn’t any mud to make them slip and fall as they stumbled along. And if it hadn’t been possible before, then it sure as heck isn’t possible now. He steadies Elder McKinley against his side as his body begins to slip a little from his grasp, the skin of his waist iced cold and slippery from the rain. They are both drenched, soaked to the bone; dirty and exhausted and freezing and _scared_ and Kevin knows they can’t stay out here, not like this. They will need to find somewhere to stay for the night, somewhere out of the elements, where they can catch their breath and rest up for a while as they wait out the storm. As much as he wants to, there simply isn’t any way for them to walk back. Not with his body giving up on him like this. Not in this weather. Not when Elder McKinley isn’t wearing any shoes.

Through the steady stream of tears and rain, Kevin glimpses what looks to be a mailbox outside the hut. He slowly leads them towards it, wincing a little with each step as he holds Elder McKinley tightly against his side.

The name printed on the mailbox in partially scratched out letters fills him with a feeling that can only be described as elation.

 _Mafala Hatimbi_.

The nice man hired by the Church to greet them at the bus stop the day of their arrival, whose daughter had shown him and Elder Cunningham to the mission house. Kevin’s first impression of the man had been that he seemed jovial and kind. Perhaps even kind enough to grant two bruised, rain-soaked missionaries a roof over their heads for the night.

But it must be nearing three o’clock in the morning, now. An obscenely late hour to be knocking at someone’s door. The door of two people they barely even know. Then again, Kevin thinks, as he stares longingly at the door of the Hatimbis’ hut; if it were the other way around, and Mafala and Nabulungi were the ones knocking at _their_ door, asking _them_ for help, he knows he wouldn’t hesitate for a second to let them in, to provide them with warmth and safety and asylum for as long as they needed. Kevin would do that. And he’s fairly certain Elder McKinley would do that, too. 

Perhaps Mr. Hatimbi and his daughter are of the same mind. Maybe they wouldn’t mind letting Kevin and Elder McKinley into their home for a few hours to dry out and rest as they wait for the storm to pass.

They fumble around outside the hut for a minute as they make their way up the steps. Kevin raises a hand, to knock at the door, to cry out for help, but hesitates upon realizing he has no idea what to say. He’s never been one for asking for help. The whole idea makes him feel useless and _weak_ , like he isn’t able to care for himself. But the rain dripping down his cheeks and the shooting pain stabbing at his back and the ache in his fingers from Elder McKinley’s death grip remind him that he doesn’t have much of a choice. There is no other option. Not this time.

He raps at the door, tentatively at first, and then with increasing desperation, as he tries to explain to those on the other side that it’s Elder Price and Elder McKinley, from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints; that they are hurt and soaked and need help.

The words sound dumb and ridiculous coming from his lips, but he doesn’t know what else to say. It feels insane to be knocking on someone’s door in the middle of the night as it is, to be asking for this kind of help from near-strangers in the first place, but he doesn’t know what else to do. They can’t walk back. Kevin has already pushed his body to the limit. His bones feel as though they have been reduced to glass. And the Hatimbis have been nothing but kind to him thus far. Granted, it’s only been three days since he’s met them, but Kevin has always been pretty good at reading people and they seem like the sorts who wouldn’t mind offering a hand in a time of need. Maybe they even have an extra pair of shoes Elder McKinley can borrow, to make it the rest of the way home once the storm clears. Something. _Anything_. He’ll take _anything_. 

“We met the other day, at the bus stop,” he tries to explain further, knocking harder when nobody answers, “And then again yesterday afternoon.”

His knees threaten to buckle underneath him as he stands there, listening for any sound of movement beyond the door, hoping to _God_ it will swing open any second now. Any second now. Any second—

“ _Please!_ ” He yells—louder, now, and frantic—when he doesn’t hear any movement coming from behind the door. “ _Please_ let us in.”

His words break off into a sob as he bangs ruthlessly at the door, a rush of tears spilling from his eyes as he presses his cheek into the wood.

“We’re hurt,” he says, sounding helpless and defeated as he swallows another round of tears. “We’re hurt and we need your help. Please. I’m begging you.”

He hears the faint sound of voices, then, arguing on the other side of the door, but can't make out exactly what they are saying. A woman’s voice—probably Nabulungi’s—is growing louder, now; more insistent. He presses his ear against the door so he can catch a glimpse of what is being said.

“Please, Baba,” he hears Nabulungi’s urgent voice, “It is Elder Price, the white boy from yesterday. The one who told us about Salt Lake City. The one who is going to lead us all to _Salvation_.”

The word nearly makes Kevin vomit in his mouth. _Salvation_. This poor girl had actually _believed_ him. 

“It could be a _trick_ , Nabulungi,” a shout-whisper comes from the man Kevin assumes to be her father, “From the _General_. We cannot open the door. Not for anyone. Do you hear me? Naba—what are you doing? _Nabulungi!_ ”

And then the door unexpectedly swings open, nearly knocking Kevin and Elder McKinley to the ground. Nabulungi is standing there, eyes widening in shock as she takes in the sight of them. It doesn’t take long for her to place a gentle hand to Kevin’s shoulder and gesture for them to come inside.

“See, Baba,” Nabulungi says, as she helps their shivering bodies into the hut, “It was not a trick. They are hurt and need our help.”

“Come inside, come quickly,” Mafala ushers Kevin and Elder McKinley further into the dim light of the hut. He closes the door behind them, cautiously peering out the window as he does so, probably to make sure they haven’t been followed. “How bad is it?” He turns around and gives them a quick once over, as if assessing the damage. “Do you need me to get Gotswana? The doctor.”

Kevin takes a moment to carefully consider the offer. He honestly isn’t sure whether he needs the doctor or not. His ribs have gone practically numb from the pain and his back feels as though it’s been run over by a truck. He feels lightheaded, kind of woozy, and his head hasn’t stopped pounding since the camp, though all of these symptoms could very well be from dehydration and exhaustion and stress. He probably could use the doctor’s eye, though. Just to make sure he didn’t get hurt worse than he thinks. But he doesn’t want to burden this nice man, this Mr. Hatimbi, any more than he already has.

“I think I’m okay,” he decides upon, and brings Elder McKinley to sit down beside him, on a wooden seat Nabulungi has just cleared off for them in the center of the hut. “Thank you, though.”

“How about your friend?” Mafala gestures to Elder McKinley, and Kevin can see the sympathy in his eyes as he peers down and takes in the sight of him. “Is he okay?”

Kevin opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. He isn’t quite sure how to answer that question. To say that Elder McKinley is _okay_ , when he is so clearly _not_ okay, doesn’t feel right. Not in front of him like this. Not when he can hear them. But he also knows that Elder McKinley is not hurt _physically_ the way that Kevin is, and so he tries to think of a good in between.

“I don’t think we need Gotswana,” he settles on with a tearful half-smile. “But we appreciate the offer. Thank you.”

“Nabulungi,” Mafala turns and beckons to his daughter, “Go to the back and get the first aid kit.”

“Yes, Baba,” she nods and makes a sprint for the back door. 

“I want to apologize,” Mafala tells them as he bends down and pulls what looks to be a gallon of milk out of a cooler near the front of the room, “For not believing you, when you knocked on the door.” His eyes are shiny with regret. “It’s just that we can never be too careful when it comes to the General,” he explains, turning his attention to a large pot sitting atop what looks to be a black wood-burning stove. “You understand.”

Kevin nods. He does understand. He understands all too well. 

Nabulungi comes running back in a moment later, a rather beaten up first aid kit in hand. She sets it down next to Kevin, her wide brown eyes glimmering in concern as her gaze falls on Elder McKinley.

Kevin has been smoothing what he hopes is a calming hand up and down his arm for the past few minutes, ever since they sat down, but the other man’s cold, wet body is still shaking violently against his side. Kevin’s other hand is positioned between them; partially numb, now, from the ferocity of Elder McKinley’s grip. Not that Kevin minds. If holding his hand like this is enough to provide even a small amount of solace, if it’s enough to make him feel even the tiniest bit safer than he had a moment ago, then Kevin is more than willing to oblige. 

It doesn’t take long to infer that Mafala Hatimbi is working to prepare them what looks to be some sort of hot drink; some kind of elixir or tea. The tension in Kevin’s shoulders relaxes just a little as he watches the man prepare the drink, at the way he digs into various sacks of herbs and spices and sprinkles them into the pot of milk with practiced ease, and it doesn’t take long for the familiar scents of cinnamon and ginger to fill the tiny hut. 

It almost smells like _home_ , Kevin thinks as he blinks back another well of tears. Almost identical to the scent of his parents’ kitchen back in Layton, Utah, when his mother would bake pumpkin pie at Christmastime and Thanksgiving, and even on Kevin’s birthday, despite the fact it's in August, because it’s his absolute favorite dessert. 

The candles Nabulungi has begun to light in the center of the table illuminate the dark space with a calm glow. There is an unexpected tranquility to the hut, the mocha-colored walls and the scent of tea and the glow of candlelight all coming together to create a rather cozy atmosphere. It would have been so serene, so enjoyable, to sit here like this, with these kind people, in this warm and inviting hut, if they hadn’t just narrowly escaped death a mere hour ago. But it isn’t serene nor enjoyable. Not really. Not when Elder McKinley is still convulsing against his side, low, heartbreaking cries being let out into his chest between every labored breath. Kevin’s hands are still shaking. There are unshed tears welled in his eyes. And neither of their heart rates have yet to return to normal. It all feels so surreal, and Kevin still half-expects one of his slow blinks to find himself back in the mission house, in his bed, next to Elder Cunningham. 

“Nabulungi,” Mafala says from his position over the stove, “Why don’t you play something? For our guests.”

Kevin’s ears perk up at that as he turns towards the young woman, who agrees with a smile and pulls what looks to be some kind of wooden flute out from a chest next to the table. Positioning the mouth of the instrument against her lips, a soft, airy melody begins to fill the room.

Kevin tries to get his muscles to relax further as the soothing music fills his ears, watching idly as Mafala works on making their tea. He looks down at Elder McKinley after a while, absentmindedly pulling him closer as he does so, to check in on his state. His eyes are still squeezed tightly shut, burrowed into Kevin’s side, but his breaths seem to finally be settling down into a somewhat steady rhythm, as opposed to the sharp, panicked gasps for air that were wracking his body only minutes before. Perhaps the warmth of the Hatimbis’ hut has been enough to calm him down, as well. Even if only a little. Even if he still doesn’t have it in him to open his eyes.

Elder McKinley had opened them for a brief moment earlier, prior to the rainfall, only to shut them again shortly after. Kevin doesn't blame him for wanting to keep them closed. Perhaps meeting Kevin’s eyes had made all of this feel too _real_ for him; like it’s actually _happening_ ; like what the General had done to them had happened, in actual real life. Kevin suspects it has more to do with embarrassment and humiliation than anything else, judging by the emotions he saw in Elder McKinley’s eyes during their brief moment of contact. Perhaps keeping his eyes closed like this is a means of self-protection, of allowing himself to put off the reality of the situation for just a little while longer, but Kevin honestly isn’t sure. 

He wants to tell Elder McKinley that he has nothing to be ashamed of, that what happened tonight wasn’t his fault, but he doesn’t know how to say the words. Kevin has never been in this kind of situation before, has never watched someone do something… like _that_... like what the General did to Elder McKinley—what he _tried_ to do, before Kevin intervened—and so he doesn’t really know what’s supposed to happen now, how they’re supposed to act with each other, what they’re supposed to _say_. The situation is all too strange, the strangest Kevin has ever been in, and the sudden juxtaposition of the unexpected serenity of the Hatimbis’ hut, the scent of spiced tea and the music and the soft glow of the candles, only serves to make it that much more bizarre. 

He isn’t certain what will happen once Elder McKinley does open his eyes, doesn’t know what he will say to Kevin when he does, but he does hope that things will go back to normal, sooner or later. That they will eventually be able to put this horrible mess behind them, to go on with their lives, their mission. But, for now, he knows they will need to talk about it, will need to sit in the weirdness of it, and he isn’t sure what that is going to look like. It scares him a little, if only because facing the unknown, especially when it comes to _feelings_ and all that, has always made Kevin a bit uneasy. 

Maybe Elder McKinley will be better at it than Kevin is. He sure hopes so, at any rate. For both their sakes.

The last step in brewing what Kevin assumes to be some sort of traditional milk tea seems to be the addition of the actual tea leaves, which Mafala gently tosses a giant handful of right into the pot. The man gently stirs the liquid with a strainer, using it a short while later to remove the saturated tea leaves from the steamy hot milk as he turns off the stove. Ladling a hefty serving into a brown ceramic mug, he holds the cup out to Kevin. 

“Ugandan ginger tea,” he explains. “To calm your nerves.”

“Thank you,” Kevin says, sincerely. He looks down at Elder McKinley, keeping an eye on his face as he slowly unwraps his arm from around his shoulders, so that he can accept the cup of tea. Making sure to keep his other hand latched with Elder McKinley's between them, he takes the cup from Mafala and peers down at the liquid. 

It looks deliciously creamy, with bits of powdered spice sprinkled atop the froth. It smells so good, too; toasty and warm, like a cinnamon bun. It probably contains caffeine, he thinks, judging by the giant bag of black tea leaves Mafala had thrown a handful of right into the pot, but he honestly doesn’t care. Not anymore. Not after everything they’ve been through tonight. Adhering to the _no caffeine_ rule just seems so utterly ridiculous, now. Ridiculous and pointless and just plain _stupid_. This nice man has just gone out of his way at nearly three o’clock in the morning to prepare a pot of warm tea for them and Kevin’s throat feels like a desert. 

He’s going to drink it, rules be damned.

He instinctively goes to bring the mug to his lips with both hands, a habit he’s had since he was a child whenever cupping a hot drink like cocoa or cider, but a small, distressed noise coming from Elder McKinley stops him. It takes Kevin a second to realize the culprit and makes quick work of lacing their fingers back together. He gives his hand a squeeze, to try and let him know how sorry he is without having to say it. Elder McKinley squeezes back with the same intensity he had before, but unlike Kevin’s, the other man’s grip does not let up. It must be making him feel better, Kevin thinks. It has to be, or he wouldn’t be doing it. With another squeeze to Elder McKinley’s hand, Kevin takes in a long sip of the spicy milk tea, and it tastes absolutely _heavenly_.

“This is delicious,” he says to Mafala as he brings the cup from his lips and sets it down on the small, wooden table. He tries to convey the earnestness of how much he means the words, but his voice is all hoarse and wavering and he isn’t sure whether or not it comes across. “Thank you.” 

The man nods with a tired smile as he pours a second cup of the warm liquid. Kevin takes it from his hands and holds it out in front of Elder McKinley.

“Here, have some of this,” he softens his voice as he lifts the mug to the other man’s lips, the sweet sound of Nabulungi’s flute still playing in the background. “It’s tea. It’ll make you feel better.”

He doesn’t know if that is true or not. It just felt like the right thing to say. A feeling of hope flutters in his chest as Elder McKinley’s pale hand reaches out and grasps at the mug. It’s still shaking rather violently, however, causing a bit of the hot liquid to spill out over the side, dripping down his wrist and onto his already-soiled garments. Kevin wraps a hand over the other man’s fingers, trying his best to steady the mug as he angles it against his lips. He manages to take in a small sip, and Kevin waits a moment before pulling it back and setting it down on the table.

Mafala kneels down in front of them with the first aid kit and explains to Kevin that he’s going to attempt to tend to his wounds. He unbuttons Kevin’s shirt, but has some trouble exposing all of his midsection due to his and Elder McKinley’s tightly clasped hands. 

“I’m going to have to let go,” Kevin reluctantly whispers into his ear. “But only for a second.”

Elder McKinley doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t protest either when Kevin temporarily removes his hand to slide his shirt off, over his arms. He discards it quickly to the side, not particularly ever wanting to see it again, and laces their hands back together in less than several seconds.

“Let me put it over the heater,” Mafala offers, gesturing to the soaking wet shirt, smeared with a mix of blood and soil. “To dry it out a little.” Kevin nods, watching as the man drapes it over a small heater in the front of the hut. 

The man goes to work on Kevin’s wounds shortly after, dousing a cotton ball in some kind of alcohol solution. It’s only when he presses the cotton against the skin of Kevin's torso that Kevin actually looks down at himself, seeing for the very first time what he’s suspected all along: that much of his stomach has turned a rather concerning shade of navy blue, caked with bits of dried out blood.

“ _Ah!_ ” Kevin hisses as Mafala drags the cotton ball across the damaged skin. “Ow, ow, _ow_ , that _stings_.”

“A little sting is better than a big infection, yes?” Mafala chides him, lips curling into a small smile, and Kevin is forced to agree. “So, how did this happen, anyway?” The man asks as he prepares yet another solution-soaked cotton ball to torture Kevin with. “Piss somebody off?”

Kevin expels a sigh that might have come out a laugh had the situation been anything other than what it was. “Yeah,” he admits as the alcohol-soaked cotton ball being dragged over his skin once again makes him wince, “I guess you could say that.”

He tries to elaborate on the matter of _what happened_ , tries to explain why on Earth he would do such a _stupid_ and reckless thing, but the memory honestly feels so hazy in his mind, now, that he isn’t even sure why he did it. He isn’t sure why he feels compelled to be honest with this man, either—this near stranger—but he supposes it must have something to do with the tenderness in which the man is tending to his wounds and the delicious spiced tea warming his belly.

“I went to the General’s camp,” Kevin reveals in a rather timid tone. Saying the words out loud like this, actually admitting to his insanity, his mistake, his _failure_ , sends a trickle of vulnerability to the pit of his belly, combating the soothingness of the tea. 

“You did _what_?” Mafala bellows, and it's loud enough to make Elder McKinley flinch against his side. “You went to the General’s _camp_?” 

Kevin reluctantly nods, biting down at his bottom lip as he once again faces his lap, where the stinging black and blue marks only serve to remind him of what a fucking _idiot_ he is. 

The man sits back on his heels for a moment, looking at Kevin in sheer bewilderment. “Well, why the Hell would you do _that_?”

“I don’t know,” Kevin admits, and a part of him almost laughs, again, at the stupidity of it all, but it doesn't quite come out.

He blinks back another wave of tears as he tries to remember exactly _why_ he would do such a stupid thing. It’s a myriad of reasons mixing together, he supposes, resulting in one very poor decision. His father’s expectations of him. His siblings’ admiration. His desire for perfection. The way the other Elders had treated him after he ran off, after he had a bit of a meltdown. The way they had dismissed him so easily when he had been so excited to jump back in and continue on with his mission. The look on Elder Cunningham’s face when he refused to accept Kevin's apology. Elder McKinley’s last words to him before all of this insanity started: _If it’s working better this way, he can just leave Elder Price out of it_. 

He doesn’t blame Elder McKinley for his mistake, for his choices. But to say it hadn’t been a factor; that the words hadn’t pushed him _just_ over the edge when he was already teetering dangerously close to falling, would be a lie.

“I guess I thought I could make him stop,” Kevin settles on, quietly, after a moment of contemplation. “Make him stop hurting people.”

It isn’t a lie, he tells himself as he takes another sip of tea. It’s a _half-truth_. A half-truth is not a lie. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Mafala lets out a deep sigh as he sits back and gazes into Kevin’s eyes. He looks genuinely saddened by the confession, his tone laced with a thick undercurrent of pity. “Oh, you _stupid_ boy." His gaze then drifts to Elder McKinley, a heartbroken look on his face as he takes in the sight of the other boy’s crumpled form. “What about him?”

“Oh, um.” Kevin swallows hard and lets his eyes linger for a moment on Elder McKinley before turning back to Mafala. “He came after me. Once he realized where I was going.”

“Idiots,” Mafala lets out a sad sigh, his eyes glazing over a little as they stay fixed on Elder McKinley. “The both of you.”

Kevin nods in agreement, because the man is absolutely right. They are idiots. Kevin, for going to the General’s camp in the first place; and Elder McKinley, for having the balls to come after him. Kevin is undoubtedly the bigger idiot of the two, he thinks, as Mafala closes up his wounds by wrapping a large cloth bandage around his torso. It had been Kevin’s choice to go there, to disobey the rules, to try and convince the General to hear him out. The entire thing had been _Kevin’s_ decision and _Kevin’s_ alone. Elder McKinley probably only came after him because he felt obligated to, as the District Leader. But _Kevin_ is the one who started it. _Kevin_ chose that. Nobody else. And now they are paying for it. The both of them.

Kevin squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, trying not to feel the cold metal of the General’s gun pressing against his cheek. Trying not to hear Elder McKinley’s blood-curdling screams as he begs for them to stop. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore. Doesn’t want to think about the throbbing pain in his ribs or the General’s taunting _laugh_ or the way Elder McKinley’s cries had cut through him like a knife; the look on his face, shocked and terrified and confused, pressed down against the table, sobs erupting from his throat at nearly inhuman speeds. 

Kevin doesn’t want to think about any of it and so he takes in another sip of tea, instead, liking the way it feels as the warm liquid slides down his throat and into his belly. It's the only thing preventing him from passing out; that, and the fingers laced through his own, gripping them with relentless vigor.

He brings the mug to Elder McKinley, then, nudging the edge against his lips so he can take another sip. It had been enough to calm Kevin’s nerves just a little. Maybe it will do the same for Elder McKinley. Even though his cries have simmered down and his trembling isn’t quite as violent as it had been before, he is still curled into Kevin’s side; unmoving, unspeaking.

Elder McKinley’s eyes blink open a moment later, if only partially, to accept the gesture of tea. He raises a shaky hand to meet Kevin’s, wrapping his fingers around the cup as Kevin tilts it into his mouth. He takes in a long, slow sip of it, closing his eyes as he swallows, seeming to savor the warmth it offers. Kevin uses the brief window of opportunity to lean in closer and get a good look at the other man’s face. The eyes Kevin now knows to be _blue_ are red-rimmed and puffy, but it looks as though the steady stream of tears that have been pouring out of them for the past hour or so have finally slowed to a near stop. 

“It’s good, right?” Kevin says, just to say something— _anything_ —as their conjoined hands pull the mug away from his lips. He doesn’t expect Elder McKinley to respond, and he doesn’t. Not verbally, anyway, but he does afford Kevin a very weak nod. 

A _nod_. 

It’s enough to send a wave of relief over Kevin’s body, to make his heart lurch a little in his chest. He never thought in a million years that something as small and insignificant as a _nod_ could do that to him, but it has. Because it’s a _response_ , at least. It means Elder McKinley had heard him and responded, and that’s better than nothing. No, it’s _something_. It’s the only reply he’s gotten from him since they left the camp, other than the desperate way he’s been clinging to Kevin’s hand, seeming distraught whenever he moves to let it go.

“Do me a favor,” Mafala says as he leans in, ladling another hefty spoonful of the velvety spiced milk tea into his cup, “Next time you feel like being a hero, maybe bring a gun with you, yeah? That way you can defend yourself.”

“We don’t have a gun,” Kevin says, numbly, gazing down at his tea as he thinks back to only an hour or so ago, when he’d been forced to hold a gun—an actual _gun_ —in his hands for the first time in his entire life. Another swell of tears burn behind his eyes at the memory. “Mormons don’t believe in violence,” he says. “We’re pacifists.”

Mafala lets out a sigh and once again calls them _idiots_. The tone of his voice isn’t cruel, though. It actually sounds almost _loving_ , in a way; the way a father might chastise a small child for making a dumb mistake. Kevin knows the man isn’t being mean or trying to make fun of them. He knows that. He can tell by the look in his eyes, the gentleness of his voice. But there is pity in there, somewhere.

“You will stay here tonight,” Mafala announces and beckons once again to his daughter. “Nabulungi. Go clear off the hammock.” 

“Yes, Baba.”

Mafala then turns back to Kevin. “We have a hammock in the back you boys can sleep in. You look like you could use a good night’s rest.”

“Oh, _thank you_ , Mr. Hatimbi,” Kevin says, his tone so grateful it’s nearly unrecognizable. “Really,” he says, more calmly, trying to swallow his obvious excitement. “You have no idea. After what we’ve been through tonight. I can’t even tell you how thankful we are.”

“Please,” the man waves him off, looking almost annoyed at the thanks, “We are happy to help. Anyone who goes on a suicide mission against the General is okay by me. And, please, call me Mafala. The only Mr. Hatimbi in this village is my father, may he rest in peace.”

Kevin nearly smiles, but can’t quite get his lips to fully curl up. “Thank you,” he says, again, meaning it, “ _Mafala_. And thank you, too, Nabulungi.” He turns to face the young woman who has just come back into the room, after presumably clearing off their hammock.

“It is no problem,” she smiles, and reaches out a hand to help them up. “Come. I will show you where you will be sleeping.”

-

It’s dark in this corner of the hut, the soft light from the candles Nabulungi had lit earlier only visible in his periphery. There is a thin, curtain-like material separating the hammock from the rest of the hut, where Kevin assumes Mafala and Nabulungi will be sleeping. He can hear the distant sounds of light rummaging around and whispers as their hosts get ready to go back to bed, the warm scents of cinnamon and ginger still lingering in the air.

The hammock they are to sleep in is small and rather tattered, but for Kevin, whose body feels as though it might snap in half any moment now if he doesn’t lay down soon—well, it looks like a little piece of Heaven. It’s then that it hits him that there is only one hammock, and it takes him less than a minute to decide to give it to Elder McKinley, who is still leaning against his side, still clutching onto his hand as though it's the only thing keeping him from crumbling.

“Here,” Kevin says, as he brings Elder McKinley to sit down on the edge of the hammock, gently pressing into his shoulders so that he takes a seated position. Despite the reassurances Kevin has been trying to give him, and the searingly close contact they’ve been forced to be in for the past few hours, Elder McKinley still refuses to meet his eyes. Kevin is thankful, at least, that the other man’s shaking and crying has subsided a bit since entering the warmth and safety of the Hatimbi’s hut. Keeping their hands locked together, Kevin kneels down on the floor in front of the hammock, in front of Elder McKinley, so that he can peer up at his face, at his eyes, wishing desperately that the other man would have the strength to open them; to say something— _anything_. 

He rests their joined hands atop Elder McKinley’s thigh. The garments beneath their fingers are soaked with a blend of rain water and urine; caked with soil and bits of leaves and other dirt from outside, from when they ran from the General and sat by the tree. Kevin doesn’t want Elder McKinley to have to sleep in such filthy undergarments, but doesn’t want to ask Mafala for a change of clothes, either. The man has done enough for them for one evening, and has already laid back down to sleep.

He remembers, then, that Mafala had set his shirt out by the heater in the other room. It’s probably mostly dry by now. He gets an idea.

“Elder McKinley,” he says, quietly, bringing his free hand up to his cheek. He holds it there for a second. “I have to go to the other room for a minute, to get my shirt, okay? But I’ll be right back. I promise.”

A low gasp comes from Elder McKinley has Kevin unfurls their hands. His breathing goes immediately more ragged with the loss of contact, but he still does not open his eyes. He only seems to squeeze them shut tighter. The hand that had been clutching onto Kevin’s a moment ago lays upward in the exact same position, red and swollen from the ferocity of its former grip. He doesn’t make any move to stand, doesn’t move at all, but Kevin can tell the absence of his hand is making him distressed.

“I’ll only be gone for a minute,” Kevin says, and rests a hand to his arm. He rubs it up and down a few times, to try and make him understand. “Just one minute, okay?”

He slowly gets up, keeping an eye on Elder McKinley as he hobbles under the pain back into the other room. He finds his shirt rather quickly, where Mafala had draped it over the heater. It’s warm and mostly dry. There are smatterings of dirt and bloodstains caked onto it, tainting the otherwise white cloth, but anything will be better than what Elder McKinley is wearing now.

He walks as fast as he can back to their hammock, and finds Elder McKinley exactly as he left him, hand still outstretched against their makeshift bed, fingers curled and palm facing upward. Kevin takes the hand back into his own as soon as he's close enough to do so.

“Here,” Kevin says, softly, as he once again kneels down in front of him. He takes Elder McKinley’s free hand and places it against the warm, dry shirt. “I brought you my shirt. So you have something dry to sleep in.”

The warmth of the shirt must be enough to snap him out of it, as Elder McKinley’s eyes open part way a moment later. He squeezes the material limply in his hand, but does not move to meet Kevin’s eyes.

“I’m gonna need you to stand up, okay?” Kevin says, softly, using his free hand to stroke at his arm. “Can you do that for me?”

Elder McKinley nods silently and grabs onto Kevin’s arm as he helps to lift him, keeping his eyes trained on Kevin’s shoulder as he stands, before closing them once again. 

“I’m gonna wrap it around you, okay?” Kevin explains, reluctantly unclasping their hands. He then takes the bottom hem of the shirt and circles it around Elder McKinley’s waist, securing it closed by tying the ends tightly together. He tugs the material down a little over the garments, but doesn’t want them to touch for too long, or they will soak through the shirt.

Swallowing hard, Kevin nervously moves his hands up underneath the shirt and gently tugs the soiled garments down until they fall to the floor with a quiet thud. Elder McKinley lets out a low cry into Kevin’s ear as they fall, but doesn’t move away. 

“It’s okay,” Kevin whispers into his ear, and immediately pulls the excess material of the dry shirt down over Elder McKinley’s thighs, to cover him up. “All done.”

Elder McKinley steps out of the garments and leans into him for a while after that, his forehead pressed into Kevin’s shoulder, hands gripping tightly at his waist. Kevin moves a hand down the length of his arm, but instead of stroking back up, he takes Elder McKinley’s hand into his own once again. 

“I’ll be right down here,” Kevin tells him as he lowers himself to the floor, beside the hammock. Elder McKinley’s grip on his hand tightens in response to the words, as if he is afraid Kevin will let go once he lays down to go to sleep. “I won’t let go,” he answers the silent plea, clasping his free hand over their joined ones and giving them a squeeze. “I promise.” He pauses a moment, watching as Elder McKinley squeezes his eyes tighter with a weak nod. “I’ll be right down here, okay?”

He wants to say more, wants to say _just in case you need me_ or something reassuring like that, because the look on Elder McKinley’s face is still distraught and shaken and scared and something else Kevin can’t quite pinpoint, and it keeps on tugging at his heartstrings, causing more unfamiliar feelings to well in his chest in the span of just a couple of hours than he has the entirety of his life. All-encompassing guilt seems to be the prevailing emotion he feels, despite his efforts to squash it, but there are other, even stranger feelings, floating around in there, somewhere.

Kevin only gets into a sleeping position once Elder McKinley lays down atop the hammock. Their hands are still locked, fingers tightly intertwined, though now that Kevin is lying flat against the floor with his arm raised up, he can feel a new strain pulling at the muscles of his arm. But he promised Elder McKinley that he wouldn’t let go, and he’ll do his best to keep that promise, even if it means he'll need to stay up all night.

“Goodnight,” Kevin ventures, and gives Elder McKinley’s hand a squeeze. He doesn’t know what else to do. He has no frame of reference for this. It’s too unreal, too foreign to him, to know what to say, if he should say anything at all. He just hopes that the morning will bring some light and clarity to the situation; that Elder McKinley will regain at least some semblance of his former self, his confidence, his smile; his ability to speak, to meet Kevin’s eyes.

He doesn’t know when it happens, but it happens quite a while later that Kevin’s eyelids eventually betray him and he falls fast asleep against the floor. He doesn’t want to let go of Elder McKinley’s hand. He promised him he wouldn’t. But hopefully, he thinks, as he feels himself being lulled to the brink of unconsciousness, that he won’t, even after his arm goes limp and he loses the ability to feel.

-

Kevin is woken up a while later by a soft crying coming from not too far away. He struggles to blink his eyes open. They are dry and crusty and it’s almost painful to force them open all the way, but he manages, somehow. He realizes, then, that the hand that had been previously clutching onto Elder McKinley’s is now rubbing at his eyes. He must have let go sometime in the night, after he’d fallen asleep. 

He winces a little as he sits up all the way. His back doesn’t hurt any less than it had earlier, the hard floorboards he’s been sleeping on only seeming to have made it worse. He guesses it’s still nighttime, as the uncovered window beside the hammock is still full of blackness and moonlight, still dripping with droplets of rain, and the sun has not yet risen. 

“Hey,” Kevin whispers, his voice hoarse from sleep, the sounds of Elder McKinley’s quiet sobs filling his ears as he stands to his knees. He instinctively reaches out across the hammock, to provide whatever comfort he can, and breathes out a soothing, “It’s okay.”

His hand comes into contact with a warm body, bare skin. Elder McKinley flinches under the touch and so Kevin immediately retracts his hand, inwardly cursing himself for being so forward. His goal had been to comfort him, not to stress him out even further. 

“It’s okay,” Kevin’s voice cracks as he tries once again to soothe him. He leans in closer, over the hammock, making sure not to touch him as he does so. “Everything’s okay.” He knows it isn’t, but he doesn't really know what else to say. “We’re safe now,” he adds, even though they aren’t. Not really. Not as long as the General is still out there, but the words just fall out of his mouth. “We’re safe.”

It’s nearly pitch black in the hut and Kevin can barely make anything out, least of all the details of Elder McKinley’s face. But from what he can tell, the other man is turned away from him, facing the rain-laden window, curled up into a ball, in the fetal position, crying. Elder McKinley lets out a series of shaky breaths, his body trembling against the hammock, and Kevin has never felt the urge to pull another human being into his chest the way he feels the urge to pull Elder McKinley into him, right now.

He barely even _knows_ this person. Doesn’t even know his first name or where he’s from or his favorite food or his opinions on polarizing topics such as mayonnaise or reality television. All he knows is that he doesn’t like the sound of Elder McKinley's cries. They hurt him. They hurt him in so many different ways, all of them warring against one another like a swordfight in the pit of his belly. It's breaking his heart; having to watch this person, someone Kevin has only known to be confident and happy and outgoing in the mere three days they’ve known each other, being reduced to a quiet, trembling shadow of the person he was yesterday. The urge to try and fix it, to ease the pain, to make him stop _crying_ , is nearly insurmountable, and so he tries once again to comfort him. He makes sure to do so slower this time, whispering the entire time that it’s _just me_ , it’s _Elder Price_ as he rests a tender palm to the slight curve in Elder McKinley’s waist. He doesn’t flinch under the touch this time, and Kevin keeps his hand there as he stands. 

Slowly, cautiously, and looking for any sign of resistance, he sits down on the edge of the hammock beside Elder McKinley’s legs. It shifts a little under the added weight, but the other man doesn’t flinch or push him away. Keeping his hand atop Elder McKinley’s waist, he begins to thumb small, rhythmic circles into his skin, hoping it might be enough to calm him down. It seems to work, after some time of repeating the gentle motion. And Kevin doesn’t know how long, but the other man's cries eventually grow softer, and softer, and softer, eventually devolving into the occasional shaky sniffle. 

When he thinks that perhaps Elder McKinley has finally fallen back to sleep, Kevin moves to get up, only to find a panicked, desperate hand clutching at his arm a moment later, and a pair of very wide awake eyes gazing up into his own. Kevin falters for a second, shocked at the fact that Elder McKinley is looking at him—really _looking_ at him, straight into his eyes. He’s entirely unsure what it means or what Elder McKinley is silently asking him to do. 

He doesn’t get much time to figure it out, either, as the other man’s tearful blue eyes blink shut a moment later, his face wrinkling up and a spring of fresh tears spilling out of his eyes. The pale, shaky hand releases its grip on Kevin’s shirt, but the action seems almost reluctant, as though he is forcing himself to let go. Elder McKinley turns back over onto his side, then, to once again face the rainy window, curling up into the same small ball he’d been in earlier, soft cries escaping his throat as he clutches at his knees. They are quieter than they had been before, though. Kind of restrained and cut short, as though he is trying his best to suppress them.

Kevin doesn’t know what he’s doing, if he’s doing the right thing or the wrong thing; if he’s picking up on the cues or misreading them entirely or whatnot, but all he has is his instinct and he doesn’t know what else to go on. There is nothing else to go on.

Following the feeling in his gut, the flicker of fear he saw a moment ago in Elder McKinley’s eyes when they parted, he makes the difficult decision to lay down on the other side of the hammock, next to Elder McKinley. He does so slowly, carefully, just in case he had completely misread the cues and isn’t actually welcome. His heart thumps wildly in his chest as he lowers himself down. He doesn’t know if this is what Elder McKinley wants or needs. If he’s making the wrong decision or the right one. But once his body is laid horizontal, he slowly turns over onto his side and wraps a tentative arm around Elder McKinley’s waist. A breath hitches in the other man’s throat at the contact, but he doesn’t push Kevin away. He quickly latches onto Kevin’s hand a moment later, a sob lurching from his throat as he pulls it tightly into his chest. Kevin lets out a sigh into Elder McKinley’s back and tries to relax into the hammock, relieved that he had made the right decision, for once. 

It’s nearly incomprehensible, he thinks, as Elder McKinley grips harder at his hand, pulling it closer, deeper into his chest, that he could actually be _here_ , holding a near-stranger in his arms; that he could be somebody’s rock, their strength. He’s never even done this with his own _brother_ before. Perhaps with his sister, once or twice, but not since she was little. It feels alien to him, but not at all wrong, to be a grounding force for somebody else, someone he barely even knows. 

Kevin is the one who did this to Elder McKinley. He’s the one who managed to get them out of it, yes, but that doesn’t negate the danger he put them both into tonight. And if he can be the one to provide even the smallest amount of comfort, to fix even a tiny percent of what needs fixing, then he will. Rules about close contact between mission brothers be damned. Rules about not ingesting caffeine or staying up past ten or getting up at six-thirty be damned, too. Damn it all. This feels _right_. Making someone else feel better feels _right_ , and if this is what Elder McKinley needs from him right now, even if only for tonight, even if only for a moment, then Kevin intends to provide.

Elder McKinley falls asleep first. Kevin knows this by the way his breathing eventually evens out and the hand that has re-taken his own with an unforeseen intensity has loosened its grip to a light entanglement. It doesn’t take much longer for Kevin to follow suit and drift off to sleep, as well; the pitter-patter of raindrops tapping at the straw roof of the hut, and the hand clutching at his own, lulling him into blissful unconsciousness. He’s always suffered from nightmares in the past, and he should probably have them tonight, especially, considering all they’ve just been through. But he’s never fallen asleep next to another person before, never _held_ someone in his arms before, not like this, and for whatever reason, the warmth of another human body pressed against his own is enough to grant him a rather dreamless sleep. It’s a first, and after all they’ve been through that evening, he will gladly take the respite, brief as it may be.

-

When Kevin wakes up the next morning, there is a foggy, confused moment where he actually _forgets_ what happened the night before. Forgets where he is or when it is or the fact that there is another person lying next to him, in the same bed that isn’t even a bed.

He blinks his eyes open shortly after waking, and nearly has a heart attack when he sees Elder McKinley lying there, next to him, still fast asleep, still with Kevin’s dirtied white dress shirt wrapped around his waist. The shirt must have shifted around during the night, however, as much of the cloth has bunched up around his waist, leaving Elder McKinley’s porcelain-hued legs—his thigh and—and _more_ —exposed. 

Kevin doesn’t mean to stare at it, but it’s _right there_ and he’s just woken up and his brain hasn’t quite clicked on yet. Squeezing his eyes shut in shame, he looks away and blinks them back open once they land on the window. The rain has stopped. _Good_. They’ll be able to walk home once Elder McKinley wakes up. The sun is shining, pouring brightly through the window, and the small hut is once again filled with the sweet spicy scent of Ugandan ginger tea. He turns slowly back to Elder McKinley’s sleeping form, taking great care not to let his eyes linger on the skin in front of him as he gently nudges the material of the shirt back down to cover him up. He can’t have Elder McKinley waking up to… _that_. Not after last night. 

With a sigh of relief, Kevin slowly lays back down on his side of the hammock, careful not to shake their makeshift bed as he does so. He doesn’t want to wake Elder McKinley up. He could use all the sleep he can get. Kevin doesn’t know what time it is, but judging by the brightness of the sun it’s probably well past six-thirty, the mandatory wake up time for the Elders. The other Elders are probably worried sick about them, undoubtedly freaking out upon waking up to no Elder Price and _especially_ no District Leader. They do need to get out of here soon, he realizes, before the group inevitably forms a full-on search party. He doesn’t particularly want to think about having to explain any of this to the other Elders, doesn’t think he can manage it, but it will be quite obvious that something awful has happened to them when they come trudging back into the house half-naked and bruised, covered from head to toe in dirt. 

It’s almost too bad that they will need to get up so soon, that they have to leave the sanctity of the Hatimbis’ hut at all. Elder McKinley looks so peaceful like this, his breathing slow and steady. Calm. Untroubled. Kevin moves his gaze upward from the other man's chest, letting his eyes take in all the features of his face; at the light smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, the fullness of his reddish eyelashes, the slight part in his lips. His eyes eventually move from his face, down the length of his body. His skin is smeared with bits of dirt, partially covered by Kevin’s equally filthy dress shirt that will promptly enter the tiny trashcan of their kitchen the minute they get back. He never wants to see that shirt again. Ever. He _hates_ it. All it does is remind him of what happened… what _almost_ happened... to Elder McKinley. 

He isn’t sure if it’s instinct at this point or just some sort of involuntary reaction to the sight of Elder McKinley’s tattered form—jarringly clear and vivid, now, under the morning light—but he rests a hand against the other man's shoulder before he can stop himself. The touch makes Elder McKinley stir in his sleep and a few moments later, his eyes are fluttering open. As they do, Kevin can see the memories come flooding back to him; the peacefulness, the steady rhythm of his relaxed, sleeping breaths, the untroubled look on his face, all vanishing in less than a second.

Elder McKinley tilts his head slightly and locks his gaze with Kevin’s. His eyes still look fearful, as they had the night before, but for very different reasons. They seem less afraid about what happened to them and more afraid about having to _talk_ about it, having to face it and sit in it, in the piercing light of the sun, with Kevin. Because talking about it would make it real, like it actually _happened_ , and wasn’t just the product of their nightmares.

It’s then that Kevin realizes his hand has not yet moved from its place against Elder McKinley’s shoulder. He feels a hot blush wash over his cheeks, down his neck, and pulls it away immediately. Though his first instinct is to avert his eyes, he forces himself to hold Elder McKinley’s gaze. He’s had enough of looking away. It’s time for them to face what happened, to confront it head on. The prospect is scary, especially for Kevin, but he knows they have to. It’s the only way they’ll ever be able to move past this; whatever _this_ is they are doing, what they did last night.

The silence goes on for longer than is comfortable, though, neither of them making the move to speak up first. 

That is, until Elder McKinley unexpectedly does.

“You’re hurt,” is all he says. His tone is small and timid, his glassy blue eyes zeroing in on Kevin’s torso, at the bandage Mafala had wrapped around him. 

“Oh, yeah,” Kevin says, looking down at his wounds. He had honestly forgotten all about them. He isn’t sure how, considering the constant and ever-present pain he has been in since the camp. He looks back up and tries to meet Elder McKinley’s gaze, but the other man's eyes are still glued to the bandage around his waist. "It looks worse than it is,” Kevin tries to smile, but it ends up faltering. “I'm really okay. I promise.” He pauses a moment, nearly second-guessing himself before stuttering out a nervous, hesitant, “How, um—how are you doing?”

He inwardly curses himself as the question falls from his lips, because it sounds so dumb and stupid and far too casual for their current situation, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

“I’m okay,” Elder McKinley replies slowly, though it's painfully obvious to Kevin that he is not. His blue eyes are glistening beneath the light of the sun, a well of unshed tears threatening to fall any second now as he stares at Kevin’s bandage. Elder McKinley closes his eyes and turns away from Kevin a moment later, a few runaway tears spilling down his cheeks. “I'm sorry," he whispers, shaking his head. He opens his eyes and they immediately land on his legs, on the shirt wrapped around his waist where his pants are supposed to be. He slams his eyes shut again, his chest heaving up and down as if suddenly hit with an onslaught of severe pain. "For last night," he breathes out, clearly struggling to say the words, to speak at all. "You shouldn’t have had to take care of me like that. I'm sorry."

Kevin lays there for a moment, lips parted in shock. He doesn’t know what he had expected Elder McKinley to say after the horror that was last night, after everything they’ve been through, but he sure as Hell wasn’t expecting an undue _apology._

He wants to say something— _needs_ to say something. But Nabulungi must have heard them talking, because she comes running over to them a moment later, before Kevin can form a proper rebuttal to Elder McKinley’s ridiculous _apology_ , with a warm smile and the offer of fruit and porridge for breakfast. And then Elder McKinley is off the hammock and into the other room faster than Kevin can say _can you_ _give us a minute_ and it becomes painfully clear to him, then, that talking about this with Elder McKinley is going to be a heck of a lot harder than he thought.

-

They don’t speak much at breakfast. They don’t speak at all, actually, despite the fact that Kevin desperately wants to. He doesn’t even know what he wants to say. Not exactly. He just knows he wants to talk about it. Which is odd, considering Kevin never wants to talk about his feelings, with anyone. He is a very private person. The privatest. He has a privacy screen on his phone and locks his iPad and computer with complex passwords that no one will ever be able to figure out. He refuses to keep a journal, for fear someone might somehow get their hands on it and read it. He doesn’t have many friends. Not the kind he feels comfortable baring his secrets to, anyway.

And, yet, for some reason, he finds that he desperately wants to talk to Elder McKinley. 

He has so many things to say to him, he just isn’t quite sure how to articulate them properly. And he wants Elder McKinley to talk to him, too. Because Kevin is the only other person who knows what he’s just been through, what they have been through, together.

Mafala provides Elder McKinley with a spare pair of sandals and offers to drive them the rest of the way home in his open-roof, off-road vehicle. 

The ride back is a rather somber affair. Mafala is the only one who speaks, trying his best to make light of the situation by giving them a little tour of the village, pointing out highlights such as the market and the kaffe. Kevin doesn’t say much during the ride, though, and neither does Elder McKinley. Kevin doesn’t know what to say, and Elder McKinley’s eyes look a bit vacant, staring blankly ahead as if lost in his own thoughts. Kevin silently wonders if the other boy is replaying the events of last night in his mind, the same as Kevin; wonders if he is regretting coming to Kevin’s rescue at all; wonders if he’s going to gradually realize this whole thing is actually entirely Kevin’s fault, and that he should probably never see or speak to him ever again. He wonders if they will talk about it, later on, once the raw emotions, the embarrassment and the fear, subside just a little, and they can put their feelings into words. 

-

Kevin had honestly forgotten all about the other Elders during their ride home, and is surprised to find a frantic Elder Cunningham and Elder Thomas pacing the living room, shouting at each other. They both spin around the moment the door clicks shut, jaws dropping and eyes bugging out in shock as they take in what’s left of Elder Price and Elder McKinley.

“ _Elder McKinley!_ ”

“ _Elder Price!_ ”

Their companions shout nearly simultaneously as they race toward the door. Elder Thomas immediately begins bombarding Elder McKinley with a slew of rapid-fire questions— _what happened_ , _are you alright_ , _are you hurt_ , _where are your clothes_ —while Elder Cunningham just wraps Kevin up into an overzealous bear hug.

“ _Ow!_ ” Kevin winces as his companion’s arms wrap around him. He involuntarily shoves him away, spikes of pain stabbing at his ribs from the sudden embrace. “Please, just... just stay back, alright?” He musters out, clutching onto his bandaged midsection. “I’m in pain.”

“Pain?” Elder Cunningham’s face falls as he steps back, eyes moving up and down over Kevin’s damaged body. “Elder Price, what the heck _happened_ to you? Where were you all night?”

But Kevin doesn't answer. He's much too preoccupied by Elder McKinley, whose voice is growing louder, now; angrily insisting to Elder Thomas to please leave him alone, that he _doesn’t want to talk about it_.

“ _Elder Price!_ ” Elder Cunningham cries and begins shaking him by the shoulders to get his attention. "Buddy?"

Kevin whips back around and forcefully pushes him away. He does so instinctively, not meaning to crush his companion's feelings or make his face look like... like _that_. He just doesn’t want anyone to _touch_ him. Not right now. Not so soon after. Not when his entire body is still throbbing in pain. 

“Elder Price, I’m your _best friend_ ,” his companion tries desperately to remind him in a manic plea. “I know we hit a bit of a rough patch the other day, but you can’t just stand there all hurt and bloody and _shirtless_ and not tell me what the heck _happened_.” 

But Kevin barely hears him. He’s much too focused on the way Elder McKinley is yelling at Elder Thomas, angrily pushing him out of the way as he darts for the bathroom.

“ _Elder Price!_ " Cunningham tries once again to get his attention. "You can’t just—”

“ _Later_ ,” Kevin snaps, his eyes trained on Elder McKinley's back as he watches him stomp away. “I’ll tell you later, alright?” He turns and meets Cunningham’s eyes for a split second, lightly touching his shoulders as he brushes past him in rapid pursuit of Elder McKinley. He can hear the confusion in his companion's voice as he leaves him behind by the door, but he needs to make sure Elder McKinley is okay.

“Elder McKinley,” Kevin pants after him, breathless now from trying to catch up. He goes to place a hand to the back of the other man's pale shoulder as he runs, but misses just and awkwardly stumbles over his own feet. “Look, I know you probably want to be alone right now, and get cleaned up and all,” Kevin follows after him as he makes a beeline for the bathroom door, “But you know where to find me if you ever want to—”

And then the bathroom door slams right in his face, nearly smacking him in the nose. 

“Talk,” he finishes the sentence, dumbly, as he backs away, eyes face-to-face with the peeling paint of their worn out bathroom door. “If you ever want to talk.”


	3. Waltz

Kevin lingers outside the bathroom door long after it slams in his face. He wants to say more, wants to ask Elder McKinley if he’s alright, if he needs anything, if he wants to talk, but then he hears the shower turn on a moment later and decides he should probably leave Elder McKinley well enough alone. 

He knows they will inevitably need to talk—to have _the_ talk—but he also knows that now is probably not the right time to pursue the matter. They could both use some time to get cleaned up, to clear their heads, to try and process the events of last night, alone.

He remembers, then, that they only have one shower in this pitiful excuse for a house. Eight missionaries to one bathroom. Whoever thought _that_ was a good idea must have been awfully sadistic. Or just plain terrible at math. 

He doesn’t want to dirty up his bed or the couch or anything, really, but he’s tired. So, _so_ tired. He doesn’t particularly want to go back out into the living room, either, where he knows Elder Thomas and Elder Cunningham are just _waiting_ to bombard him with difficult, uncomfortable questions he doesn’t know how to answer. 

He slinks down to the floor with a sigh and leans back against the door, where he sits in silence for who knows how long. He tries to close his eyes, but every time he does, he sees things he doesn’t want to see. Things he never wants to see again. The manic glee in the General’s eyes as he instructs his guards to beat Kevin senseless. Elder McKinley, crying hysterically into the table as the General tauntingly removes his clothes. The gun in Kevin’s hands as he raises it and points it towards their aggressors, trembling and shaking in fear.

A soft cry comes from behind him, startling Kevin from his thoughts. He leaps to his feet and presses a worried palm against the door. The cries are quiet, barely even audible, partially muffled out by the barrier between them, the hum of the shower, but the deep-seated anguish within them is unmistakable.

Kevin’s first instinct is to bang on the door, to call out to the boy on the other side, to offer something— _anything_. A hand to hold. A shoulder to cry on. But Kevin knows better than to do all that. Elder McKinley is allowed to cry without being interrupted. He’s allowed to let it out. He _needs_ to let it out. And if he’d rather do that alone, in the semi-privacy of their tiny, ramshackle bathroom, where the constant drum of water beating against tile can drown out most of the evidence, then Kevin will just have to leave him be. 

He cannot bear to listen to it any longer, however. It hurts too much. But he doesn’t know where else to go. He wants to shower, but he can’t. Wants to make himself a hot cup of herbal tea and lay down in his bed, but he can’t. Not without passing by Elder Thomas and Elder Cunningham on his way to the kitchen. They are both still out there. He can hear them talking, _whispering_. The house is not that big and the walls are paper thin. But the bathroom is occupied and he doesn’t want to taint his bedroom with the filth of last night, and so he supposes he has no choice but to go out there and face the onslaught of questions he knows are awaiting him. 

* * *

Connor doesn’t know how long he stays in the bathroom after he slams the door, shutting out whatever Elder Price was trying to say. He doesn’t know what it was and he honestly doesn’t care. Can’t care. Not now. Not when he’s much too focused on the seemingly impossible task of trying to breathe, to calm down, to stop hyperventilating. 

The bathroom is borderline disgusting from years of continuous use by hoards of nineteen-year-old boys who have never lived on their own before, the stained, tattered walls closing in on him from all sides. His breaths are labored, painful, and he can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs without each gasp hitching in his throat. It hurts. He doesn’t remember turning on the shower, but his autopilot must have had the good sense to do so, to drown out the concern of his fellow Elders, as well as the sounds of his own distress.

He eventually sits atop the toilet, face burrowed in his hands, tears flooding through the gaps in his fingers, dripping down his wrists and onto the floor. He should be in the shower, should be washing the filth of the night off his body, but he can’t really think straight. His mind is all whited out, frozen and paralyzed and numb, incapable of thinking anything, and yet he somehow _feels_ … _everything_. He feels _everything_ , all at once. 

The cold metal of the General’s gun, pressed into the back of his neck. Calloused hands on his thighs, stroking up and down with a false gentleness. Wood digging beneath his fingernails. The panic in Elder Price’s voice, his desperate screams for them to stop. Trembling hands beneath his knees as he’s lifted up and carried back to the village. The iciness of the rain. The warmth of the tea. The hand Elder Price allowed him to squeeze all night long. The arms around his waist, holding him close as he cried. The wind in his face during the silent ride home. The tightness in his throat as Elder Thomas assaulted him with a slew of unanswerable questions. The feeling of helplessness, of vulnerability; the embarrassment, the humiliation, the fear. 

He feels all of it, _everything_ , all at once. 

He doesn't know how much time has passed, but he eventually gets it together enough to enter the shower, only to find the water has run cold. It always does after ten minutes or so. Nothing in this place works. Not the way it's supposed to. Nothing about this entire _mission_ is working out the way it was supposed to. 

Even before all of this, before last night, Connor McKinley had been hanging on by a very thin thread. The shame of being here for three whole months and not having baptised a _single_ person. Having to look after, and be a support system for, a house full of nineteen-year-old boys when he can barely keep it together himself. The disheartening nature of where they have been sent, surrounded by poverty and hunger and death on all sides. Intolerable living conditions, danger lurking around every corner, and they don’t even have a _car_.

Those were the only issues Connor had to worry about, up until last night. Still an unreasonable burden for any normal nineteen-year-old to be expected to carry without losing their minds just a little. But it had, at the very least, been manageable. Manageable enough for Elder McKinley to wake up each and every morning at the ungodly hour of six-thirty and plaster a smile on his face for the sake of his Elders; to draw up the chore list in multi-colored dry erase markers, equipped with his signature heart above each of his “i”s and a poorly drawn smiley face in the corner, wishing them all a blessed and productive day.

A sob breaks in his throat as the cold water pummels his soiled skin and his fist is punching the moldy tile before he can stop it. It hurts his knuckles, but he doesn’t care. He punches it again. And again. His skin eventually gets used to the freezing temperature of the water, his knuckles go numb, and after what feels like weeks, months, years, he finally grabs the bar of soap and his loofah and begins scrubbing the filth off his skin. He does so angrily, with intent and purpose. Scrubbing it feels _good_. Getting the grime and dirt off his body feels _good_ , though the sight of the muddy sludge swirling down the drain threatens to make him expel his breakfast.

He keeps on scrubbing, long after the dirt is gone, trying to get the _touch_ of the General’s _hands_ off of him. He scrubs and scrubs, harder and harder, until his skin turns red. But it doesn’t wash away the ghost of the General’s touch, nor the embarrassment or the humiliation or the fear. It doesn’t wash away anything, really, except for the physical, and he is left exactly where he started, just with very sore skin.

* * *

Kevin is hit with a slew of rapid-fire questions the moment he re-enters the living room, Elder Thomas asking noticeably more than Elder Cunningham, and in much more of a panicked frenzy. But Kevin doesn’t want to give too much away, mostly for Elder McKinley’s sake, and so he answers all of them as vaguely as possible, evading most of the questions without lying directly, intentionally muddling the truth _just_ enough while managing to keep most of the details under wraps.

He doesn’t mention anything about the General or his men or about what happened—what _almost_ happened—to Elder McKinley, deflecting each and every query by deliberately steering the focus back to himself. On how he had yet _another_ meltdown about the state of things, their lack of baptisms, their mission; on how he had run off, upset, without ever telling anyone where he was going. He explains how Elder McKinley, ever their caring and dutiful District Leader, had spent the entire night outside, in the dark, searching for him. 

It isn't a total lie. It just isn’t the whole truth. 

If Elder McKinley wants to divulge what _really_ happened later on, he can. Kevin won’t stop him. But he knows he can’t do that _for_ Elder McKinley. They haven’t talked about it, yet. They haven’t talked about _any_ of this, yet. Not really. But Kevin knows it isn’t his place to tell the other Elders what happened. That decision lies with Elder McKinley, and Elder McKinley alone. 

Arnold doesn’t ask as many questions as Kevin had expected him to, given his earlier hysterics. He stands behind Elder Thomas, looking more nervous and fidgety than usual as he plays with his hands, his tie. His expression isn’t quite as panicked as it had been before, when Kevin and Elder McKinley came barreling through the door, half-naked and covered in dirt, but he does look uncharacteristically _sadder_ , in a way, his unfocused gaze lingering on Kevin’s battered body, as though he knows something Elder Thomas doesn’t.

“But somebody _must_ have hurt you,” Elder Thomas insists, gesturing to Kevin’s wounds. “I mean, _look_ at you.”

Kevin looks down at the bandage wrapped around his waist. He supposes he can’t really lie about this one. The evidence is overwhelming. 

“Oh, um, yeah. Somebody—somebody did,” he stammers. “But it isn’t as bad as it looks. I just… I ran into the wrong people while I was out, that’s all. Some thugs. But I really am okay. I promise.”

Once again, it isn’t _really_ a lie. He didn’t have to mention the fact that he had gone out _looking_ for said thugs or that they just so _happened_ to be the General and his men, or the fact that Elder McKinley _also_ had an unfortunate run-in with the same band of thugs, all thanks to Kevin’s inability to stop himself from making reckless and impulsive decisions.

“I didn’t see any bandages on Elder McKinley,” Elder Thomas ventures, a hopeful glint shining in his eyes. “That’s good, isn’t it?” He prods, so clearly looking for the silver lining to all of this. If only he knew the truth. “Isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Kevin nods. The lie is shaky in his throat. “It’s good.”

Elder Thomas looks relieved at this, his lips even curl up a little, and Kevin could honestly vomit. 

There is an awkward silence that lasts for nearly a minute, the only sounds being Kevin’s mildly-labored breathing, the distant hum of the shower, the sound of the floor creaking as Arnold shifts from one foot to the other.

“Look, uh.. we had a bit of a rough night last night,” Kevin speaks up after a moment, “and I think we could both use some time to rest.” He swallows hard. “But I, um. I really think Elder McKinley would want you guys to go out there and stick to your work.” He makes a can-do gesture with his arm, trying his best to force a smile.

“Hmm… I don’t know,” Elder Thomas muses in an uncertain tone, looking worried in the direction of the bathroom. “We aren’t supposed to leave our companions alone.” 

“I’ll stay with him,” Kevin offers, trying to silently impress onto Elder Thomas how badly they need this. “You guys should really just… go.”

He knows it’s a selfish thing to do, to deliberately try and get their companions out of the house so he can have some time alone with Elder McKinley, but he doesn’t know the next time they will have the opportunity to talk—to _talk_ -talk—without their companions around to intervene. It may be now or never, and Kevin knows he needs to take that chance.

“Well, I suppose this _is_ a bit of an extenuating circumstance,” Elder Thomas reasons, still sounding a bit reluctant, “What with last night and the baptism crisis and all. And I guess as long as _you_ stay home with him, then I guess.. I guess it could be okay.” He then takes a deep breath and turns to Elder Cunningham, plastering a broad smile to his face. It looks false and practiced, as though someone had just painted it on over a frown. “Looks like I’m with you, then.” He claps his hands. “Ready to get going?”

Snapping back to attention, Elder Cunningham’s eyes flicker nervously from Kevin to Elder Thomas. “Say what?”

“Price and McKinley are staying home today,” Elder Thomas explains. “So it looks like I’m with you, then. Ready to get going?”

“ _Nooooo,_ ” Arnold shakes his head, laughing in that nervous way he does as he takes a step back, “No, no, no, no, _no_.” He places extraordinary emphasis on that last _no_. “We can’t.. We can’t do _that_ … together. No.”

“What?” Kevin screws up his face. “Why not?”

“Because I just... I can’t have anyone _with_ me while I preach, you know?” He stammers, anxiously wringing out his hands. “It just. It ruins my flow.”

Elder Thomas wrinkles his nose. “Your _flow_?” 

They give him a chance to elaborate on whatever this _flow_ means, but Elder Cunningham just stands there, eyes wide and alarmed, looking like a kid who just got caught stealing from the cookie jar. 

“We all preach from the same book, Elder Cunningham,” Elder Thomas reminds him, not unkindly. He takes a step forward and Arnold takes one back, crashing clumsily into the door. “Surely you can make due with me tagging along just this once.” 

“Yeah, sorry, no can do,” Arnold laughs squeakily as he opens the door. “I’m kinda like Batman, you know? I work alone. But thanks—thanks for the offer, though. I super duper quadruple.. throuple.. appreciate it.” He pauses a moment, a pair of worried eyes flitting between Kevin and Elder Thomas. “Alright, I gotta go. See ya.”

And then he’s out the door faster than Elder Thomas can get another word in, leaving him staring at the space Arnold had just vacated. 

He turns to Kevin, looking dumbfounded. “That was weird."

“Yeah, it was.” Kevin narrows his eyes in the direction of the door. “Even for him.”

“I better go after him,” Elder Thomas sighs and bends down to slip on his shoes. “Can’t afford to lose any of these people, not when we’re this close to getting an _actual_ baptism.” He smiles dreamily at the thought as he laces up his shoes. “And if there’s one thing in this world guaranteed to cheer Elder McKinley up: it’s getting some baptisms, am I right?” 

He stands back up, looking entirely too sunny as he lays a playful pat on Kevin’s arm.

“Oh. Uh, yeah.” Kevin forces himself to return the smile. “Definitely.”

Truthfully, though, he isn’t quite sure any amount of baptisms are going to be enough to cheer Elder McKinley up. Not this time. He isn’t sure _what_ will be enough, if anything will be.

Elder Thomas keeps that far-too-perky smile glued to his face as he starts for the door, turning around just to give Kevin a mock salute before making his way out in pursuit of Elder Cunningham. 

Kevin isn’t sure if it’s because of their recent ordeal, if perhaps it’s done something funny to his brain to make him see things differently or what, but all of the Elders just seem so… _delusional_ to him, now. Brainwashed, even. The way they slap those smiles onto their faces and spend every waking moment of every single day trying their darndest to get people to join the Church. And when they aren’t trying, they’re thinking about trying. It’s _all_ they think about, really. It’s all Kevin used to think about, too. It’s all he used to _be_ , really, as he’s never been much of anything else. And it’s difficult for him to pinpoint exactly _why_ , but all of it just seems so… _wrong_ to him, now, as though the veil of ignorance has been lifted and he can finally see everything, clearly, for what it is. For exactly what it is. 

Nabulungi’s words echo in the back of his mind. _It is the white boy. The one who is going to lead us all to salvation._

She is delusional, too, he thinks, by no fault of her own. 

He shakes his head at the thought, as though the doubts might fall out from his ears that way, but it isn’t any use. He can still feel them there, gnawing at him, whispering everything he thinks he may have already known, but was too afraid to admit.

Until last night. Until now.

* * *

Connor steps out of the shower, leaving it running as he wipes the steam from the tiny bathroom mirror that sits above the sink. The person looking back at him makes him sick. His face is nearly unrecognizable. Tear-stained cheeks. Red-rimmed eyes bloodshot and swollen—the happy, optimistic soul he usually sees peeking out from behind them, vacant and numb. There are bruises dotted along his neck, drifting down to his collarbone, in the shapes of fingers. He slowly lifts a hand and touches one of them. He didn't even realize he had any noticeable bruises, until now.

He reaches down to pick up his clothes, freezing in place upon realizing there are no clothes to speak of, save for the bloodied shirt Elder Price had lent to him the night before. He bends down and picks it up, smoothing a slow hand over the name badge. _Elder Price_. 

Elder Price. If you had asked Connor just yesterday or the day before that what he thought of Elder Price, he would have told you the man was a _gorgeous_ , unstable, emotional mess; an overly-confident missionary who thought too much of himself and held too many grandiose, rose-colored delusions of what mission life was going to be like—a man who’s performance thus far hasn’t lived up to his name, to the praise-laden recommendations from the MTC lacing his personnel file. 

But, now. Well.

He still doesn’t know Elder Price very well. He barely knows him at all, actually, despite the events of last night, which have all kind of blended together in a nonsensical blur. But Connor does know one thing about him, now, that he hadn’t before, and that is that Elder Price is as caring as he is brave.

He must be, Connor thinks, to have gone out of his way to save him like that, to put his own life at risk for a near stranger, when he didn’t have to. He could have stood by and did nothing, could have let that AIDS-afflicted guard have his way with him. He didn’t have to risk his life the way he did—the way he did for _Connor_. Didn’t have to stay up all night taking care of him, didn’t have to hold his hand or carry him back to the village or take the time to reassure him that everything was going to be alright. He didn’t have to do any of those things. But he did. And that _means_ something, Connor thinks. It has to. He isn’t sure how many layers one will need to peel back in order to reveal the _real_ Elder Price— _Kevin Price_ , according to his paperwork—but Connor is fairly certain he may have caught a glimpse of him last night. 

Connor rolls Elder Price’s bloodied, ruined shirt into the smallest ball possible and hugs it against his chest. He knows he should probably throw it away. It’s beyond saving, after all, no matter how many times he washes it. It’s permanently stained and covered in grime and, yet, Connor feels this inexplicable urge to hold onto it, to save it. 

He knows how strange it is, to be keeping a memento from the worst night of his life, but this shirt is also a reminder of the one good memory he has from the whole ordeal. The way Elder Price had gone out of his way to help him, to make him feel safe; had given up his shirt so that Connor wouldn’t have to sleep in wet, soiled garments. The way he tenderly wrapped it around Connor’s waist, as he was still too shocked and shaken to do it himself. This shirt _means_ something, he thinks, as he stares down at its filth. A reminder that someone had cared enough about him to help him in his time of need, to comfort him, to _save_ him. And for a night filled with so many horrors he’d give up anything to forget, he’ll gladly take a memento from the one good memory it's given him.

* * *

Kevin wanders back over to the bathroom, to see if perhaps Elder McKinley had vacated, only to find the door still closed and the shower still running, the faint murmur of languished sobs and poorly-stifled cries still echoing from within.

The sounds cut him where he hurts the most, flooding him once again with a fresh surge of guilt. But he knows there isn’t anything constructive he can do to help, not right now, and so he just sighs and retreats into his bedroom, unintentionally slamming the door behind him.

He doesn’t want to sit on the bed, not in these disgusting clothes, and so he just busies himself at his dresser, instead, where he pulls out a clean set of garments. He doesn’t have many of them, thanks to the brutes who stole their luggage at the bus station the day of their arrival. Courtesy of the General and his men, Kevin has been left with just two changes of missionary attire, a couple sets of garments, a pair of pajamas, and a tee shirt. All missionaries are allowed to bring one tee shirt and one pair of shorts for exercise, as well as a few sets of pajamas. Thankfully, Kevin had the good sense to shove some of those into his backpack and not his luggage. 

Tears well in his eyes as he thinks about the items that _were_ in his luggage. A care package from his mother, equipped with several strawberry-kiwi Capri Sun pouches and a variety of healthy, non-perishable snacks. Technically, additional food items weren’t allowed, but his mother had been fearful that there wouldn’t be any food provided on the 6-hour-long bus ride to the village. And then there were the few personal effects they were allowed to bring. Kevin had been reluctant to pack them, for fear he might lose them, but two years is a long time to be away from one’s family and he didn’t want to forget what they looked like. A lone tear rolls down his cheek as he thinks about the items. The family photos. The teddy bear his mom had made for him at _Build-a-Bear_ as a parting gift, equipped with a custom-made missionary uniform and an _Elder Price_ name badge and everything. Hand-written letters from his immediate family. A crayon drawing from his eight-year-old sister. All of which were in his luggage. All of which were stolen.

He wipes his eyes and pulls out a fresh change of clothes, slamming the mostly-empty drawer shut with more force than necessary.

It occurs to him, then, on his way out of the room, that Elder McKinley hadn’t stopped by his own room before racing into the shower, and thus did not have a clean change of clothes in there with him. He could always come out in a towel, Kevin supposes. Some of the Elders do, despite that it goes against protocol, and the fact that their towels are all too small and tattered. But after last night… 

Well, maybe there _is_ something Kevin can do to help Elder McKinley, after all.

He steps out into the hallway and cautiously approaches the bedroom Elder McKinley shares with Elder Thomas. With a quick glance back at the bathroom door, Kevin quickly makes his way inside. He isn’t one-hundred percent sure which dresser belongs to whom, but judging by the heart-shaped photo frame sitting atop the one near the window, featuring a red-haired, teenaged boy with a little girl in his lap, Kevin is fairly certain this dresser belongs to Elder McKinley. 

He picks up the heart-shaped frame and runs a slow, pensive finger over the smiling boy in the photograph. He appears to be at some kind of beach, surrounded by multi-colored pails and shovels, the vast blue ocean shiny in the distance. He looks so happy, Kevin thinks— _genuinely_ happy—broad, toothy grin spread from ear to ear; thick, reddish hair blowing wildly in the wind; cheeks rosy from the sun; a pair of pale, freckled arms wrapped snugly around the front of the little girl’s waist. 

Probably his baby sister, Kevin thinks with a tearful smile, judging by the equally fair skin and light auburn hair on the girl, matching that of the boy. Kevin knows all about baby sisters, as he has one of his own. From what little he’s learned about Elder McKinley over the past few days—albeit, mostly from afar—he seems like a genuinely good person, and Kevin hopes to see him smile like that again, one day, as big and as bright and as true as he is in the photograph.

He sets it back down exactly as he found it—near the front, shifted slightly to the right—and sifts through the drawers until he finds everything he needs: a clean set of garments, a shirt, a pair of black dress pants. No tie. Kevin’s heart sinks a little as he remembers that both Elder McKinley’s tie and his name badge were left behind at the General’s camp.

Luckily, Kevin has a spare tie Elder McKinley can borrow, the one his mother made him shove in his backpack at the last minute because _you never know_.

Making sure to leave the door cracked open exactly as Elder Thomas had left it, he heads into his own room and grabs his extra tie. He carefully folds each of the items and leaves them in a neat stack in front of the bathroom door. 

He doesn’t think Elder McKinley will come out for quite some time, as he can still hear pained, barely-audible cries coming from within, blending together with the pulsating water from the shower. He doesn’t want to knock on the door, to rush Elder McKinley out before he’s ready, despite the fact that they only have one bathroom and Elder McKinley isn’t the only one in desperate need of a wash. No, Elder McKinley can stay in there for as long as he needs, as far as Kevin is concerned. 

He still needs to get washed up, though, and soon, as his skin is starting to itch from the dirt. With a sad sigh, he grabs a fresh change of clothes for himself and some lemon-scented dish soap from the kitchen and resigns to going outside and washing off with the garden hose. It isn’t ideal, but it’s better than nothing.

* * *

Taking in a deep breath, Connor cracks the bathroom door open just a little, hoping to God there won’t be any prying Elders waiting on the other side, asking him to explain himself, to tell them what happened, to _talk_. 

He doesn’t find anyone, but he does find a full change of clothes, neatly stacked atop one another on the floor. The tie is unfamiliar to him and the shirt has no name badge, as he had left both of those behind at the General’s camp. 

He bends down and picks them up, surprised and confused by the thoughtfulness of the gesture. He gives the general vicinity a quick once over, in case the mysterious good samaritan is still hovering nearby, but there is no one in sight. 

He slinks back into the bathroom and slips on the fresh pair of garments, relieved to have something clean and dry against his skin. He doesn’t bother with the shirt or the pants or the tie, though, because why should he? He isn’t planning on leaving the living quarters today. Maybe not even tomorrow. Elder Cunningham seems to have everything under control. They don’t need him. Not that any of it really matters, anyway. Not the Church. Not the baptisms. Not the report due to the Mission President in just a few days. Not even their mission. None of it matters, anymore, and a part of him is honestly unsure if it ever really did. 

He unclasps Elder Price’s name badge from the bloodied shirt, balls the cloth tightly against his chest, and opens the door. He does so slowly, just slightly, and hesitantly peers outside. He doesn’t want to talk to anybody. Not even Elder Thomas. He just hopes his companion had the good sense to go out proselytizing with one of the other Elders, despite it going against the rules, and isn’t waiting for him in their shared bedroom.

He peers down the hallway before willing himself to step out of the bathroom. It appears to be empty, void of any prying Elders, but before retreating into his own room, he bends down and slides Elder Price’s name badge underneath his door. 

Once in the safety of his thankfully-empty bedroom, he wraps Elder Price’s shirt into a towel and hides it underneath his bed. He knows he’ll need to wash it later on, if he seriously wants to hold onto it, but he doesn’t have the energy for that right now. Once concealed beneath his box spring, he sinks down into the stiff mattress and pulls the covers up to his chin. The blankets aren’t the best quality, kind of old and scratchy, but they are warm and snug against his skin, providing him with some small semblance of security.

But it isn’t enough. He can feel tears brimming in his eyes, once again, burning him from within. He isn’t sure how it’s even possible. He’s already cried more tears in the past twenty-four hours than he has the last ten years of his life. How can there possibly be _more_?

He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath, to try and force himself to relax. Then another, then another. 

_Turn it off_ , he tells himself, over and over and over again, until the words blend into one. 

It’s worked before. It’s worked _so_ many times before.

Well. Sort of. It’s _sort of_ worked before. When kids would pick on him in school or his father would tell him to stop twirling around in circles _like that_ , to stop _dancing like that_ , because people might think he’s _one of those girly boys._ Or all the times he’s had to remind himself to flick the switch off in his mind whenever he’d meet a cute boy with kind eyes. One cute boy with kind eyes in particular, these days; the one who makes Connor die a little inside every time he thinks about what happened last night; about everything said cute boy had been forced to witness. The idea that _Elder Price_ had seen him like… like _that_... in a way nobody had ever seen him, in a way nobody was _ever_ supposed to see him. Naked. Hysterical. _Broken_. It’s unthinkable, and he doesn’t really know how he’ll ever be able to look Elder Price in the eyes ever again, how he’ll ever get up the nerve to speak to him again, despite how kind and selfless he had been throughout it all. 

There are so many things Connor wants to say to him, a myriad of questions burning in his gut along with the shame. He wants to ask him what the Hell he was _thinking,_ going to seek out the General like that. Wants to ask him why he so cavalierly risked his life for somebody he barely even _knows_ ; why he had been so kind to him afterwards, why he took care of him the way he did. But, most of all, Connor wants to thank him, wants to repay him, somehow; wants to apologize, again and again, for being… for being _naked_ … for being gross and naked and hysterical and _disgusting—_ for inadvertently forcing Elder Price to take care of him, all night long. 

Perhaps this is God’s way of smiting him; a punishment for having impure thoughts about boys—about one of his own Elders. Maybe he even deserves what he got, he thinks bitterly as he turns over in bed. The Church would probably have him think so. They were told God would protect them, after all; that God would keep them safe, as long as they followed His calling and did everything they were supposed to do. And maybe these thoughts, the ones he knows he isn't supposed to be having, have allowed the danger to seep in, to get through the protective barrier. Maybe God has abandoned him all together. Or maybe he hasn’t and the Church has just been filling his head with lies, to get him to comply. He doesn't know which possibility he finds more disturbing: the idea of God punishing him for something he can’t control, or having spent most of his life being lied to.

Logically, of course, Connor knows it wasn't his fault, despite what the Church may have them think. The _General_ had been the one to do that to him. The _General_ had removed his clothes. The _General_ had called that AIDS-afflicted guard over and instructed him to do the unthinkable. The _General_ made him cry. And _anyone_ in that situation would have cried, would have screamed, would have broken down the way Connor did. 

Still, the fact that someone—that _Elder Price_ , of all people—had seen him like _that_ fills him with an amount of embarrassment he didn’t even know was possible. The sight of the boy he’s been trying to convince himself isn't attractive holding his filthy _garments_ in his hands. The look on his face when Connor opened his eyes. The gentleness of his touch throughout it all—as he helped Connor drink his tea and step out of his garments and lay down on the hammock; how he kept his hand latched with Connor’s all night long, despite the intensity of his grip.

All of it. It all fills him with such an all-encompassing _shame_ that he isn’t even sure how he’ll ever be able to get past it, to push it down, to turn it off. 

But it’s worked before, he thinks. At the very least, he _pretended_ it did, and that’s half the battle.

To say that turning it off _truly_ works would be a lie, but pretending it does is all part of the illusion. You pretend and pretend and _pretend_ until it eventually becomes true. Fake it ‘til you make it. Believe that it’s true and eventually it will become so. That sort of thing.

And it _does_ manage to do the trick, most of the time. At the very least, he can usually _make believe_ as if it does and sometimes that’s enough. He’s learned to ignore that last little bit of it by tucking it as far as he can into the back of his mind where he can barely even feel it. But there is still this smidgen of _something_ , no matter how hard he tries to push it down, that reaches up every so often and nips at his sensibilities; the one that tells him that maybe he’s been lied to all these years and he’ll never be able to stop thinking about boys the way he isn’t supposed to think about boys; that the embarrassing tightness in his pants or the blush dusting his cheeks whenever he gets too close to one he likes is not from desire or attraction, but is just an involuntary reaction from being so young and confused. 

_You’re young_ , his mother always used to say to him. _You’ll grow out of it._

He never did grow out of it, but telling himself he did was almost enough. Enough to get through most of the day without thinking thoughts he wasn’t supposed to think, without doing things he wasn’t supposed to do. But then he’d have the dreams, the nightmares, and he knew they weren’t completely gone. But he could deal with that. With pretending during the day and battling his demons at night. He was used to it, at any rate. Much like the burden of being a forcibly-optimistic District Leader in charge of seven other nineteen-year-old boys, it was difficult, but manageable. 

But this. This is different. What happened last night. What _almost_ happened. It all feels so _different_. It doesn’t feel manageable. It feels as though it's permeated, saturated, every cell in his body and there isn’t any place left for it to hide. He can try all he wants. He _will_ try. He _has_ to try. Not for himself or the Church or the Mission President, but for the sake of his fellow Elders. Trying is half the battle, after all. Pretending is the rest. 

But he honestly isn’t sure if any amount of trying or pretending is going to be enough to turn this one off. Not this time. 

* * *

Kevin heads to the back, where he spotted a small outdoor enclosure and a garden hose the other night while exploring the grounds with Arnold. There doesn’t seem to be anyone lurking nearby, but he still glances around warily as he disrobes, not particularly jonesing to put on a show for anyone, and washes the filth off his body with the hose as quickly as possible. 

The water is freezing cold. It hurts, kind of, but it’s also a welcome contrast to the heat of the Ugandan sun. It’s refreshing, in a way, and he can almost feel it burning the General’s touch off his skin right along with the grime. He knows it isn’t, not _really_ , but it feels like it is and that’s almost enough. He is careful not to disturb the bandages wrapped around his waist as he bathes, though he’s fairly certain he will need to change them soon. They probably have a first aid kit lying around here somewhere. If not, he may have to make a trip to see the doctor. 

He tries to redress as quickly as possible—not the easiest feat with his back and ribs feeling the way they do. He’s never had trouble bending over before, or performing simple tasks such as pulling up his pants or tying his shoelaces, but he sure does now. 

He should probably head back into the house and get some much-needed rest, but he knows that if he goes to lay down, all alone in his room, with Elder McKinley crying in the next, that he won’t be able to sleep. He feels too much guilt, too much pain, to sleep. He knows he’ll only be assaulted with unwanted images, memories; the unsettling glint in the General's eyes, Elder McKinley’s screams, his tremors, and his tears. 

He hasn’t had much time to himself since he’s been here, as Rule 72 mandates that all Elders must stick to their companion’s side at all times. And when they are home, the Elders typically congregate together to eat and pray and study and then before you know it, it’s bedtime. He could use some fresh air, he thinks, and decides to stay outside a little longer and go for a short stroll. 

The sun is hot, much as it always is during the day, cooking his skin as he walks. He follows the trail of dirt that cuts through the middle of the Church’s property, stopping only when he spots what looks to be some sort of toolshed or something, shaded by a grouping of trees. 

It looks rather worn out, the brown and white paint that covers the wood, aged and peeling. It is quite large, though, and he runs a slow hand down the side of it. He doesn’t have anything better to do, not until Elder McKinley gets out of the shower, until he’s calmed down enough to talk, and so he takes a minute to fiddle around with the door. There is a lock keeping it closed, but Kevin finds it isn’t actually locked when he pulls on the U-shaped piece of metal. He has to tug on one of the doors a few times before it pops open, stuck together from heat or lack of use. 

The inside of the shed offers a welcome respite from the sun, shielding him from most of the rays, save for the few that shine in through the window. It smells kind of musty, like old paint and dust and firewood all mixed together. It’s mildly unpleasant, but not unbearable.

He looks around at the items contained therein, at the numerous paint buckets with their lids covered in droplets of colors he recognizes from the mission house. Muted teal. Basic tan. Pukey green-brown. They look as though they haven’t been touched in years, and Kevin thinks they probably haven’t, given the state of the mission house interior. 

He circles the inside of the shed and glances around, at the items covered in a thick layer of dust. Wooden logs, a small grill, an empty gas tank, some old books, and a… wine bottle. A _wine_ bottle? Curious as to why the toolshed of a house of a bunch of LDS missionaries would have a _wine bottle_ , he bends down and picks it up, dusting off the label as he does so.

It appears to be full, unopened, 13% alcohol, the year on the label 2005. He wonders if anyone has been in here since then, wonders if anybody even _knows_ about this place. He sets the bottle back down where he left it and takes a seat on the floor beside a wooden crate, where he leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. 

It doesn’t take long for him to drift off to sleep in this place, despite the unwanted thoughts floating in and out of his mind, content in the knowledge that he is entirely alone in a place nobody can find him, a place he’s fairly certain nobody even knows exists.

-

Kevin wakes up alone in the toolshed some time later. His head hurts. His back aches from sleeping on the hardwood floor. He doesn’t know what time it is, but he thinks it must be nearing five o’clock in the afternoon, judging by the position of the dark orange sun on the horizon. 

Muttering a G-rated curse to himself, he races home as fast as his bruised body can carry him, thinking he might get an hour or so alone with Elder McKinley before the others are due to arrive back. 

He thinks about what he might say to him as he hobbles along, on the off-chance he _does_ find Elder McKinley alone (and on the even offer-chance he actually wants to talk). He supposes he will try and apologize, to explain himself, somehow—explain why he would do such a stupid thing, something that nearly got both of them killed. And he will thank him—thank him for coming after him, thank him for caring enough to do so, even if it was only due to his responsibility as the District Leader. Regardless of Elder McKinley’s motives, Kevin knows he needs to thank him. Properly, and soon.

He bursts through the front door like a madman, frantically looking around for Elder McKinley. He glances around the empty living room and then down the hall. Doesn’t look like anyone else is home. Good. He wanders into the kitchen and nearly coughs at the smell. It smells like…. bleach or Lysol or ammonia or some sort of cleaning product, but, like, not a normal amount. It smells as if it's been spilt all over the floor and the smell won’t come out for months.

And then he sees him. Elder McKinley, hunched down on the floor, surrounded by plastic bottles of various cleaning products, scrubbing manically at the stove. His face, neck, and arms are a noticeably-concerning shade of pink, as though something had rubbed against his skin so hard that it has begun to chafe.

“Elder McKinley,” Kevin says as softly as possible, as not to startle him. But it startles him, anyway, and the man on the floor yelps and jumps back with a start. 

“Elder Price,” he breathes, hand clutching at his chest. He quickly averts his eyes from Kevin's, his expression turning to one of embarrassment as he shrinks back against the stove. “I’m—I’m sorry if I woke you. I was just—”

“You didn’t,” Kevin says, quickly. “I wasn’t in my room. I was… out. I went for a walk.” 

“Oh.” Elder McKinley's blue eyes travel over Kevin’s body, eventually landing on his torso, where they both know Kevin’s bandage lies hidden beneath his shirt. “I’m—I’m sorry about the shower. You were able to get cleaned up?”

“Oh, yeah. I just went outside and used the hose.” He immediately regrets the words as he watches the way Elder McKinley’s face falls. “It wasn’t a big deal,” he tries quickly to fix it. “Really. Water is water, right?” He lets out a trying laugh, in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood, but it only adds to the awkwardness of the situation.

“Yeah.” Elder McKinley’s eyes glisten a little as he lowers his gaze once again to the floor. He pinches his eyes shut a moment later and shakes his head, as if in physical pain. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to keep saying that,” Kevin says, gently, an invisible knife stabbing him in the chest every time Elder McKinley utters that word. Why is he _sorry_? Shouldn’t he be _angry_? Shouldn’t he be so, _so_ angry? Shouldn’t he be _blaming_ him for all of this? A part of Kevin is thankful that he isn’t, but another, more insistent part of his psyche, knows it’s what he deserves. 

Elder McKinley goes silent after that, frozen in place as he keeps his eyes focused on the floor. The expression on his face makes it clear that Kevin's presence in the kitchen is causing him a great deal of distress. That wasn’t Kevin’s intention. That was the complete opposite of his intention. All he wanted to do was use the rapidly-dwindling time they have alone together to try and talk. Or not talk. He just wants to offer… _something_. 

He knows he needs to tread carefully, though, given the panicked look in Elder McKinley’s eyes, the way his hands have begun to tremble just a little. Kevin approaches him slowly, gesturing to the floor with a soft, “Can I?”

Elder McKinley pales a little at the thought, but gives Kevin a weak nod and scoots over to the other side of the stove. Barely-detectable tremors wrack his hands as they push his body back, keeping his eyes focused on the floor as Kevin sits down beside him. 

The shininess of the stove catches Kevin’s eye and he takes a moment to really look at it. It’s practically _sparkling_. He supposes it was probably due for a good scrub, but he also knows that no amount of scrubbing is going to be enough to fix this, to undo what’s already been done. He doesn’t know what will be, if anything will be, only that he needs to try. Elder McKinley wouldn’t even _be_ in this situation if it weren’t for him. It’s the least he can do. 

Kevin opens his mouth—probably to say something awkward and uncomfortable—when a panicked shout comes from the other room, followed by the harsh sound of the front door slamming, reverberating through the thin walls of the house. 

“ _Elder McKinley!_ ” A man yells and Kevin recognizes the voice immediately. It’s Elder Thomas. Back an hour early.

 _Great._ Kevin lets the back of his head slam against the stove. _That’s just… great._

 _“Elder McKinley!_ ”

“We’re in here,” Elder McKinley calls back, and there is a pained expression on his face as he wills his body to stand. Kevin stands, as well, wincing a little as his ribs get back at him for it. 

“What is it, Elder?” McKinley asks in a tired voice when Elder Thomas comes bursting into the room, looking out of breath.

“It’s about Elder Cunningham,” he pants, grasping at his knees as he keels over, trying desperately to catch his breath. “He’s… I followed him to the village today, to preach with him at the meeting, and he..” Thomas pauses, shaking his head in confusion. “I don’t know. I—I only overheard a little bit before he saw me, but it…” He takes in another gasp for air as he stands upright. “Well, it doesn’t sound like he’s teaching them the right things, I can tell you that much.” 

Kevin turns to Elder McKinley, expecting him to be at least mildly concerned about this latest development, to show some interest in what Elder Thomas is saying, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, staring blankly at his companion, as though he had just said something as commonplace as _what would you like for dinner?_

“What kinds of things?” Kevin asks, because Elder McKinley doesn’t.

“I don’t even know.” Thomas wipes at his brow with a sigh. “It sounded like a bunch of made up nonsense to me.” He meets Kevin’s eyes and they look sort of desperate. “Maybe he’s interpreting the texts incorrectly? I don’t know, but somebody has to help him. We can’t afford to lose any of these people—not when we’re _this_ close to getting some baptisms.”

Elder McKinley affords him a weak nod, but Kevin can tell his mind is about as far away as it can get from the Book of Mormon or the teachings or Elder Cunningham. 

“Okay, well. You’ll go with him tomorrow,” McKinley says, his tone a bit number and flatter than usual. He doesn’t look _bored_. Not exactly. There are far too many emotions swimming around in his eyes to manage that. But there is a marked apathy about him, as though he doesn’t really care, anymore, about any of this. “I’m sure you can set things straight.”

A worried look comes over Elder Thomas’s face as he takes in the information. “Tomorrow?” 

His eyes then drift briefly in the direction of the newly-sparkling stove, his brow creasing in concern. He looks back to his companion, whose clothing is covered in bits of soap and grease, a myriad of cleaning products and sponges and buckets of water scattered at his feet

Elder Thomas’s green eyes soften as he registers the sight and Kevin can see a renewed worry for Elder McKinley beginning to supersede his worry about Arnold. “You want me to go with him again tomorrow?”

McKinley crosses his arms over his chest, as if preparing to get defensive. “Do you have a problem with that, Elder?” 

“No,” Thomas quickly amends, looking over at Kevin in confusion. “No, of course not. It’s just. Well, what about you?”

“What about me?” There is a noticeable challenge to Elder McKinley’s tone. It’s a bit sharper and more defensive than usual. Elder Thomas glances once again at Kevin, as if his eyes might hold the answers, the key, to all of this. 

“Well, you and I are companions,” he states the obvious, looking even more confused as he turns back to Elder McKinley. “You’re supposed to go with me and Elder Price is supposed to go with Elder Cunningham.”

“Yes, well, I’ll probably be staying in again tomorrow.” Elder McKinley averts his gaze to anything other than Kevin or Elder Thomas. His voice is starting to waver and it’s obvious to Kevin that his confident facade is beginning to falter. He wraps his arms more tightly around himself and keeps his eyes turned away from them. “I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on, what with the new arrivals and all.” He gestures to Kevin, but doesn’t look at him. “You know how it is.”

“Right.” Elder Thomas nods, but there is a skeptical look in his eyes. “But staying home is against the rules. You aren’t supposed to stay home unless you’re too sick to proselytize.”

“I am,” Elder McKinley says, quickly. “I am sick.” He then leans over to the side, patting his throat as he clears it. It isn’t very convincing. If anything, it probably makes his companion even more suspicious. “I must’ve gotten a cold or something while I was out last night.” 

“Sick?” Elder Thomas asks, looking bewildered. “But you _just_ told me you have too much paperwork.”

“I do,” Elder McKinley stammers. “I have a _lot_ of paperwork to finish and I’m very ill and I need to stay home and that’s… that’s that.”

“But the rules _clearly_ state—”

“I am the _District Leader_ ,” Elder McKinley spits with an inordinate amount of venom, meeting his companion’s eyes as he steps forward. His chest is visibly heaving. “I’ve _earned_ the right to stay home if I have to. Is that understood?”

“But the rules—”

“I said _is that understood?_ ”

“Y—yes,” Elder Thomas stutters, looking even more concerned as his eyes flit between Kevin and his companion, as if searching for some kind of unspoken answer neither of them are willing to admit. 

When he doesn’t find one, he lets his eyes linger on Elder McKinley for a long moment, his face softening in concern as he steps forward. 

“Connor?” Elder Thomas places a tender hand to his arm, and Kevin’s heart _tugs_ a little at the name. “Connor, _talk_ to me. What the heck happened to you last night?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” he lies, hugging himself tighter as he shrugs the hand from his shoulder, and it isn’t lost on Kevin, the way his eyebrow twitches just a little as he tells the lie. “I’m fine. We’re fine.” And then he finally— _finally_ —looks at Kevin, only to ask an all-too-pleading, “Aren’t we fine?”

 _No_ , he thinks, as Elder McKinley silently begs with those piercingly blue eyes of his. 

“We’re fine,” Kevin lies, anyway, as he’s fairly certain Elder McKinley will murder him if he doesn’t. 

Elder Thomas goes quiet for a moment, looking confused and disturbed as he takes in the states of the two disheveled liars, both of whom have gone back to not looking directly at one another. 

“Well, if you must stay home, then my place is by your side,” Elder Thomas says, dutifully, gesturing to Elder McKinley. “Rule number 57: _if your companion must stay home, then you must stay home as well._ Rules are rules. Elder Price, I trust you can assist Elder Cunningham?”

“Oh, uh, sure.” Kevin nods, even though he probably won’t. “You got it.”

“Perfect.” Elder Thomas beams and turns back to Connor. “See? Now we can all take care of each other and we won’t be breaking any of the rules.” 

Elder McKinley sighs. His bloodshot eyes look tired and defeated. “Look, I know you mean well,” he says, in a gentler tone than earlier, “but I really am fine.” 

It’s quite obvious that Elder Thomas has not been fooled by any of Elder McKinley’s thinly-veiled lies, but Kevin knows he can’t be the one to tell him what happened. He can’t be the one to tell him the truth. That needs to come from Connor. 

_Connor_. Kevin feels a strange sensation in his chest as he silently repeats the name to himself. _His name is Connor._

He looks like a Connor, Kevin thinks, as he watches the way he continues to adamantly deflect his companion’s concerns, no matter how hard he tries to get him to open up. 

Kevin still doesn't know Elder McKinley— _Connor_ —very well, but he does know a few more things about him, now, than he had a moment ago. Like the way his right eyebrow twitches just a little whenever he tells a lie and how he tries ridiculously hard to come off as tougher and stiffer and more sure of himself than he actually is and his name is _Connor_. 

There are two sides to Elder McKinley, Kevin thinks as he stands there, watching the way he continues to argue with Elder Thomas, growing increasingly upset as he insists to his companion that _nothing happened_ and that he is _just fine_. 

There is _Elder McKinley_ , their smiling, rule-abiding District Leader; the one who had instructed Kevin, and the rest of the Elders in their group, to put aside their negative feelings for the sake of their mission. That McKinley is happy and optimistic, despite adversity, and singularly devout in his faith—so much so that he had managed to push aside his own attraction to men for the sake of abiding by God’s law. He is sweet, yes, and nervous, but he is also rather controlled and repressed and keeps too many feelings inside. He wears his emotional suppression as a badge of honor, as something he should be proud of. 

But the boy Kevin is fairly certain he met last night— _Connor_ , perhaps—remains much more of a mystery to him. The one who latched onto Kevin’s hand and never let it go, who trusted him implicitly, even when he didn’t have to. The one who silently begged for someone to comfort him, to climb into the hammock beside him and hold him as he cried, to tell him that everything was going to be alright—the one who had let all of it out, who had allowed Kevin to help him, even if only for a moment. 

But then the sun rose the following morning and he quickly slapped his mask back on. Or tried to, at any rate. Kevin can still see traces of the boy from last night, not-so-hidden behind those once-optimistic eyes. He can see the fear, the embarrassment, the pain, as Connor McKinley isn’t as good at masking it as Elder McKinley is. Kevin can see right through it and he’s fairly certain Elder Thomas can, too. And, yet, he insists on wearing it. A gift from the Church, no doubt; one that Connor probably had not asked for, but was forced to accept, regardless.

 _Turn it off_. Kevin remembers the advice Elder McKinley had given him the first night of his mission, after he nearly had a panic attack over the state of things, over their surroundings, their lack of baptisms. He knows that’s what Elder McKinley—what _Connor_ —is doing, even now, despite all they’ve been through. 

He’ll never let anybody help him, Kevin thinks, as he watches a red-faced Elder McKinley brush past a highly-concerned Elder Thomas. But Kevin knows he has to be the one to try. He’s the only one who knows what really happened, the only one who was there, who saw everything, _felt_ everything. 

Elder Thomas chases after Elder McKinley as he storms off into his bedroom, Arnold and the other Elders come home shortly after, and Kevin loses whatever slim chance he had to have that _talk_ he’s been wanting to have with Elder McKinley. 

With _Connor_.

**-**

“You went to the General’s camp, didn’t you?” Elder Cunningham asks, once they are alone together in their shared bedroom.

The question catches Kevin off-guard, regardless of the soft, non-accusatory way in which his companion says the words. He sits up a little in bed and meets Arnold’s eyes. 

“How—how did you know that?” He asks, hesitantly. “I didn’t tell you where I was going.” 

And then it dawns on him: he didn’t tell _Elder McKinley_ where he was going, either. 

“Well, I didn’t know _for sure_ for sure,” Elder Cunningham backpedals just a little, fidgeting in that way he does sometimes. “It’s just… when you said all that stuff about saving the village and all, I didn’t really get what you meant, but then by the time I figured it out, it was too late.” 

A cold realization pools in Kevin’s stomach. “And your first instinct was to tell Elder McKinley.”

It isn’t really a question, as Kevin already knows the answer. Arnold. _Arnold_ told Elder McKinley. _Arnold_ is the reason Elder McKinley had come after him, the reason he was almost—

“Well, yeah,” his companion shrugs. “It _was_ getting kind of late and he _is_ the District Leader. But all I did was ask him if he thought you’d be stupid—err, I mean, _brave_ —enough to go there.” He pauses, looking semi-worried about his little word slip-up. “But then he told me he didn’t think so and that I should go back to bed. He said you’d probably be home any minute. But then.. you weren’t. And neither was Elder McKinley.”

“He came after me,” Kevin says, quietly. He can barely get the words out. “After you went to bed.”

He tries not to show his anger, though he can still feel it there, rolling around in his gut; twisting, _knotting_. Tries to remember that none of this is Elder Cunningham’s fault, that his companion is a good, well-meaning person who was only trying to do the right thing by going to their District Leader with his suspicions. He reminds himself that what happened to Elder McKinley—what _almost_ happened—would have happened to himself, if Elder Cunningham hadn’t intervened, if Elder McKinley hadn’t come after him. 

And if he hadn’t, there wouldn’t have been anyone there to stop that man from inevitably pulling down Kevin’s pants and having his way with him, the way he tried to do to Elder McKinley. There wouldn’t have been anyone to elbow that guard in the gut and take his gun, the way Kevin had done for Elder McKinley. If Kevin had been alone, the General and his men would have done what they wanted with him, would have hurt him, possibly irreparably, and there wouldn't have been any savior to come to his rescue. 

He owes his life to Elder McKinley, and to Arnold.

He tries to remember this as he gazes into Elder Cunningham’s sorrowful eyes, but the memory of Elder McKinley’s dirtied, naked body, the piercing sound of his cries, fight to tell him otherwise, and he struggles to quell the slight burn of anger boiling in his belly.

“Look, buddy,” Arnold says, sadly, “I know things have been a little weird between us lately, but I’m always here if you ever wanna talk. You know that, right?”

Kevin can’t help but allow his lips to tug upward into the smallest, saddest smile at his companion’s words, despite the residual threads of anger gnawing in his gut. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says and sinks back down into his bed, pausing for the briefest moment before adding a barely-audible, “Thanks, pal.”

Elder Cunningham returns Kevin’s sad smile with one of his own and clicks out the small lamp that sits between them. 

Arnold falls asleep within minutes. Kevin doesn’t. He just lies there, wide awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering where everything went wrong. 

-

Two days pass and their report is due to the Mission President tomorrow, a task of which Elder McKinley has reportedly asked Elder Thomas to delegate to Elder Cunningham, despite its grave importance to the success of the mission.

The other Elders are a bit flabbergasted by this strange delegation of duties, as Elder McKinley has never done anything like this before (rumor has it he’s a bit of a control freak and no one—count ‘em _no one_ —has ever been assigned paperwork duty before). The only one who isn’t surprised is Kevin. 

He wishes he could talk to him about it; wishes he could tell him that he _gets_ it, that he _understands_ , that he’s honestly feeling the exact same way, but Elder McKinley hasn’t come out of his room since Thursday afternoon. Not even for dinner. He isn’t starving, as Elder Thomas has been bringing him his meals, but his absence is starting to cause a collective concern amongst the Elders. 

Kevin would have gotten ballsy and knocked on Elder McKinley’s door, would have asked him if he wanted to talk, if Elder Thomas wasn’t practically glued to his side. Kevin can’t get anywhere near him. Not alone. This doesn’t come as much of a surprise, though, given the rule that they aren’t supposed to leave their companions alone for any reason. The fact that he had left Elder McKinley’s side two days ago was already “bad enough”, according to Elder Thomas, and he has made it quite clear that he won’t be leaving his side again any time soon. 

But Kevin doesn’t really give a crap about the rules, not anymore, and so while Arnold—not the best rule-follower, himself—is busy trying to put together the report for the Mission President, Kevin has taken to spending his days in the toolshed.

He isn’t sure _why_ , exactly, but he supposes he kind of likes the secrecy of it, the fact that it’s sort of _his_ , in a way. Of course, the toolshed _technically_ belongs to the house, to the Church, but Kevin is almost positive that nobody even knows about it, judging by its fair distance from the house and the thick layer of dust covering every square inch of its contents. And even on the off-chance somebody _does_ know about it, he’s certain nobody in their right mind would ever think to look for him... _here_. Neither would the General or his men or anyone, really. 

It’s safe. It’s secluded. It’s private. It’s _his._ And that provides him with something he didn’t even know he needed, until now. 

-

According to the other Elders, the highlight of each week is definitely Game Night: the missionary equivalent to Family Home Evening. It’s Kevin and Arnold’s first scheduled recreational activity with the group, as they have only just arrived earlier in the week. Kevin had even been looking forward to it a little, up until all Hell broke loose, as he regularly whips his younger siblings at Monopoly and don’t even get him _started_ on his Scrabble prowess. 

Game Night isn’t nearly as much fun as it should be, however, despite the collective joy over Elder Cunningham’s recent success, as everyone is still worried about Elder McKinley. He hasn’t come out of his room in nearly three days, now, save for the way he rushes in and out of the bathroom like a blur, and neither has Elder Thomas. 

All of the Elders do as they have been instructed, though, and plaster those fake-looking smiles onto their faces despite their obvious concern. They skillfully avoid mentioning the gigantic elephant in the room as they play _Settlers of Zarahemla_ (the LDS version of _Settlers of Catan_ ) by keeping the conversation light and forcibly happy, focused mainly on the excitement of Elder Cunningham’s recent success with the villagers. Kevin tries to enjoy the game—he’s always been quite the competitive type, after all—but finds he can’t seem to concentrate long enough to get a good strategy going. How can he, when his eyes keep wandering down the hall, hoping to glimpse Elder McKinley on one of his bathroom runs. 

As frustrating as Elder McKinley’s elusiveness might be, Kevin also finds it a welcome distraction. Because if Kevin is busy wondering how _Elder McKinley_ is feeling, what _Elder McKinley_ is doing, what _Elder McKinley_ is thinking, what he might say to Kevin when they finally _do_ talk, then he doesn’t have to think about his own feelings on the matter. And he isn’t particularly keen on doing _that_. Not yet. And it serves to make the hours he spends in the toolshed, with nothing but his own thoughts for company, a lot more bearable. 

It also provides Kevin with a kind of _challenge_ , in a way; something to achieve, to work towards, the way he used to work towards becoming the greatest missionary. The goal is to try and catch Elder McKinley alone, usually as he expertly skirts past the Elders on his way to the bathroom, and ask if he wants to sneak off somewhere and have a chat. But the house is very small and the Elders are all very chummy and nosy with each other and Elder McKinley is basically a ninja and so it’s nearly impossible for Kevin to get him alone for more than two seconds. Not nearly enough time to have the conversation he desperately wants to have, of course, but he’ll honestly take anything he can get.

He doesn’t get it, though, and by the time ten o’clock rolls around, he slides into bed, only to once again find himself unable to sleep, to wake up periodically throughout the night with a strange tightness in his chest and a collage of violent images fading from his mind.

* * *

“Everyone’s worried about you, you know,” Chris says as he steps into their shared bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

Connor doesn’t answer, just keeps his eyes trained on the window. He’s been spending a lot of time in here the past few days, watching the world from the safety of his window. Watching the birds as they flit from tree to tree, the wild animals that sometimes roam about the yard—watching the way Elder Price walks down that same dirt path, day after day, alone, when he’s supposed to be assisting Elder Cunningham. Not that Connor really cares. Not anymore. But, still, it is rather curious. 

“ _I’m_ worried about you,” Chris adds, as he takes a seat at the edge of the bed. Connor doesn’t mean to, but he finds himself flinching just a little when his companion places a gentle hand atop his thigh.

The involuntary reaction feels strange and uncharacteristic to Connor, as he has always been such a touchy-feely person, always placing a hand to his friends’ shoulders when talking about something exciting, or wrapping an arm around their waists while walking side by side. He likes touching those he cares about. Not in a creepy way. It’s just something he does without really thinking, and this new weirdness he feels every time Chris touches him has him feeling more than a little bit off. 

“You’ve been moping around here for days, now,” Chris goes on. “You haven’t been eating. You haven’t been sleeping. You haven't even been _praying_. All you do is shower and look out the window.”

Connor expels a sigh and rolls over onto his back so that he’s eye to eye with his companion. “I already told you: I’m fine.”

“So you’ve said,” Chris says with a slight edge to his tone that isn’t so much angry as it is tired. His face softens with worry as he leans in, moving his hand off Connor’s thigh and taking him by the hand. “ _Please_ come out for dinner tonight,” he pleads, and the desperation in his voice is palpable. “Elder Church is making chicken and yams. Your _favorite_. I even stopped Elder Davis from using the last of the cinnamon this morning because I know how much you love it sprinkled on your yams.”

The kind words and the look in Chris’s eyes make it difficult for Connor to deny his request. He nearly even smiles. He supposes he _has_ been ignoring everyone lately. It makes sense that they are worried about him. But he just doesn't feel like getting out of bed. His reluctance is only compounded further by the fact that _Elder Price_ is out there—Elder Price, who had seen him in a way nobody should have ever been forced to see him. 

And if he goes out there, he will be forced to see Elder Price—he might even have to _talk_ to him—and judging by their little chat in the kitchen the other day, he is certain it won’t be easy. Neither of them seem to be very good at this whole… “talking about it” thing.

It isn’t that Connor doesn’t want to talk to him. He does. He has so many things he wants to ask him, after all. So many things he wants to know. Why did he go and seek out the General like that? How could someone so smart do something so _stupid_? Why did he put his life on the line for… for _Connor_? 

He wants to talk to Elder Price—to _Kevin_ —wants to better understand the boy who both jeopardized and saved his life. But it’s all so confusing and hard and it hurts too damn much. 

Still, he knows his companion is right. He can’t stay locked up in here forever. He can’t ignore his responsibilities. He certainly can’t ignore his Elders. They are in his care, after all. He doesn't want to make them worry any more than they already are. And if pretending he’s okay during the day… if going out there and eating dinner and pretending as though he still cares about all this, about the baptisms and the rules... then he supposes he’ll just have to manage. He’s always managed before.

“I’ll come out for dinner, okay?” 

“And you’ll start coming out with me again,” Elder Thomas says with a sternness to rival Connor’s on his best day. “To the village.” There is a pause, in which Connor does not agree or disagree, and Elder Thomas leans in closer. “I’m your _companion_ ,” he stresses. “We’re supposed to be together at all times, remember? We’re supposed to eat together and preach together and do _everything_ together. And this… whatever’s going on here… it just isn’t right. You need to either tell the Mission President what’s going on, tell him that something's happened to you, something that’s caused you to… have to stay home, like this… or else we need to go out there and start doing our work again like we’re supposed to be doing.”

“Fine,” Connor says, partially because he’s tired of hearing about it, but mainly because he’d rather die than have the Mission President—and by extension, his _parents_ —find out what happened. “I’ll start going out with you again. Happy, now?”

Chris opens his mouth a little, a wave of renewed concern washing over his face. He leans in even closer and searches Connor’s eyes. “No. I still don’t understand what’s going on with you. You still haven’t told me what happened.”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Connor grits his teeth as he sits up straighter in bed. “ _Nothing_. _Happened_.” 

But the lie comes out so sharp and shaky that it practically negates the words, making it stupidly obvious that something had, indeed, happened, and that he just doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Elder Price comes home beaten to a bloody pulp and then you don’t leave your room for three days straight. You let _Elder Cunningham_ , of all people, write the report to the Mission President. Something _must_ have happened. You don’t just wake up one day and decide not to give a poop about everything you used to care about. I’m not an idiot, Con—,” he sighs, remembering formalities, “ _Elder McKinley_. So don’t treat me like one, _please_.”

“Fine,” Connor says, because he’s tired of lying about this, too. “Something _did_ happen, alright?” Chris’s face falls at the admission and he inches closer to Connor on the bed, placing a hand over his thigh again. It makes Connor jerk a little. He knows it shouldn’t, but it does. He backs away from him, then, looking down at the blanket and adds, “But I’m not under any obligation to tell you what it is.”

“Yes, you are, actually,” Chris says, not unkindly. He squeezes Connor’s thigh. “Rule number 25, remember? _If you get hurt and require assistance, notify your companion_ _immediately_.” 

“I will tell you,” Connor says, swallowing hard as he looks down at the blanket, where he has taken to balling the material in his fists. His voice has gone soft, all of his earlier bravado seemingly nonexistent. “Just.. just not right now, okay? I don’t think I can.. now. I just. I need some more time, okay?”

“Yeah,” Chris says, and his eyes are caring and earnest as he reaches up and cups Connor’s hand. “It’s okay. Of course, it’s okay.” 

* * *

Word has naturally spread around to the other Elders that something—something bad—happened to both Elder Price and Elder McKinley this past Wednesday night, although the specific details of the ordeal have been left intentionally murky. Arnold knows more than anyone and even he knows very little. Kevin isn’t certain what Elder McKinley has revealed to Elder Thomas, but judging by the way the latter has been smiling like crazy while helping Elder Church make the yams, Kevin is certain he is still in the dark. 

Their kitchen is small and there are a lot of Elders and so dinnertime always means eight young men shouting over each other as they cook and prepare the table, many of them going on about their day, most of the chatter this evening revolving around the excitement of their impending potential baptisms.

The loud, bustling kitchen goes suddenly silent, however, the moment Elder McKinley enters the room. Elder Neeley drops a spatula at the wrong time and the sound as it clangs against the wooden floor is almost deafening. 

Elder McKinley’s cheeks burn red at the sudden silence and he lowers his gaze as he slinks into his usual seat at the head of the table. Everyone is extra nice to him throughout the meal, giving him most of the mashed yams (allegedly his favorite, from what Kevin overheard) and making sure they get topped with a hefty amount of brown sugar and the last of the cinnamon. 

It doesn't matter, though, because Elder McKinley barely touches his food. He’s wearing Kevin’s tie, the one Kevin had laid out for him the other day in front of the bathroom, along with a clean change of clothes. The sight of his tie around Elder McKinley’s neck makes Kevin's lips curl up just a little, but they immediately fall as he gets a good look at Elder McKinley’s skin. It is still tinted an unusual shade of pink from Lord knows how much scrubbing he must be doing in the shower. He finds he can’t take his eyes off it, despite the overwhelming guilt surging up into his throat. When he feels tears gathering in his eyes, however, he forces himself to look away. It’s hard, but he knows he has to resist the urge to say something to him during the meal. He can’t talk to Elder McKinley here. Not in front of the others, not about _this_. _This_ is a conversation that must be had in private, where nobody can overhear or interrupt them. The trouble is that privacy, at least around here, is especially hard to come by. 

It’s then that there is a knock on the door. The Elders glance around at one another, confused, as they hadn’t been expecting anyone. 

“I’ll get it,” Kevin offers, wanting desperately to have something to do that will distract himself from Elder McKinley’s long face and his full plate of food. He opens the door to find Nabulungi, holding out an item Kevin was hoping he’d never have to see again. Elder McKinley’s garments. Elder McKinley’s filthy, urine-stained _garments_. 

“Hello, Elder Price,” she greets him with that signature warm smile of hers and steps into the house. She eyes Elder McKinley sitting at the head of the table and unwittingly grins as she makes her way over to him. “My father asked me to bring these to you," she says. "You left them at our house the other night.”

She holds out the stained, rumpled garments in her hands, faultlessly ignorant of what they represent. Elder McKinley’s face pales at the sight before rapidly turning a deeper shade of red. He looks nothing short of mortified. The other Elders go silent as their eyes move from the ruined garments to Elder McKinley and then finally to Kevin, silently prodding for an explanation, for Elder McKinley to get up and accept the garments, for him to _say_ something. But all he does is sit there, eyes trained on the garments, beads of sweat forming on his forehead, lips parted in shock.

“Actually, these belong to me,” Kevin says and grabs the garments from Nabulungi’s hands. He glances around at the confused faces of the other Elders, all of whom look more than a little concerned as to why a stranger would be bringing back one of their Elder’s _garments_ , and in that kind of condition. Elder McKinley's eyes glisten with both gratefulness and surprise as they lock momentarily with Kevin's.

Nabulungi makes a confused face. “But those are—” 

“No, no, these are mine,” Kevin says, nervously clutching them to his chest. “Thanks for bringing them back to me, Nabulungi. I really appreciate it.”

“It is no problem.” She glances around at the table, at the group of Elders, eyeing the large roast chicken sitting in the middle of the table. “I am sorry for interrupting your meal.”

Kevin wants to tell her she has no reason to be sorry, that she and her father had gone above and beyond for them the other night. The look of longing on her face as she gazes at the juicy roast chicken nearly makes him invite her to join them, but she might let something slip about last night, and he knows he can’t.

“Actually, would you like to join us?” Elder Thomas unexpectedly asks, standing up and gesturing to the table. “We have—”

“ _ **No!**_ ” Arnold, Kevin, and Elder McKinley all jump and yell at nearly the same time.

Kevin turns and shoots Arnold a confused look. The boy looks downright _terrified_. Kevin understands why Elder McKinley doesn’t particularly want Nabulungi to join them, as she might accidentally reveal where they had stayed the other night, who had assaulted them, but Elder Cunningham's reaction doesn’t make any sense. It’s pretty obvious to Kevin that his companion has romantic feelings for this girl, she’s about to be baptized into the Church—you’d think he’d _want_ her to come over for dinner.

“Actually, maybe now isn’t the best time,” Elder Thomas amends, meeting the intensity of Elder McKinley’s pleading gaze with a pair of apologetic eyes. “We were in the middle of a, um… a family meeting. Right, guys?”

“It is okay,” Nabulungi waves them off, but Kevin can tell her smile has faded into a sad one. “I need to be getting back home, anyway. It was nice seeing all of you again.” She then turns to Arnold, giving him a shy smile that is downright adorable. “I will see you tomorrow, Elder Cunningham.” 

“Right on, Nagini!” Arnold shouts with a double thumbs up, looking all-too-relieved at the idea of her leaving, and her face goes from mildly confused to mildly hurt. 

Arnold doesn’t seem to notice, however, judging by the giant grin on his face, and Kevin makes a mental note to explain it to him later.

“ _Wait!_ ” Elder McKinley calls out after her, bolting out of his seat and out of the kitchen without making eye contact with any of the Elders, including Kevin. The front door bangs shut behind him, but Kevin just runs out and opens it back up, sending the other Elders a quick glance before following Connor and Nabulungi outside. 

“I’m sorry about all this,” Kevin hears him pant from a few feet away, slightly breathless from running. “It’s just.. I haven’t told any of them what happened and I didn’t.. I thought you might say something. I’m sorry.”

“ _Oh_.” The lines in Nabulungi’s face soften with the realization. “Oh, that is okay.” She takes a few steps forward, a newfound empathy in her eyes. “I understand.”

“Thanks.” Elder McKinley lets out a relieved sigh. “And thank you both for the other night, for taking care of us like that. I don’t know how we can ever repay you.” He pauses a moment, nervously balling and un-balling his fists at his sides. “If you like chicken, I can, um. I can give you lots of chicken. We get about ten or so every other week from the Church. I could—”

“As I told you the other night, it really was no problem,” Nabulungi says with more earnestness than Kevin has heard from anyone in a very long time. “My father and I were happy to help.”

And then she unexpectedly moves forward and pulls Elder McKinley into a tight embrace. He is surprised by the gesture, Kevin can tell by the way his arms remain outstretched, hung awkwardly in the air, but he returns the hug a moment later, bringing her into him for a second or two. 

“Have a good night,” she says, a kind smile spreading across her face as she pulls back and turns around to leave.

“I’m sorry, one last thing,” Elder McKinley catches her by the shoulder as she goes to walk away. “What—what was that instrument you were playing the other night?” He asks, a bit timidly, and Kevin involuntarily steps forward a little. “It sounded like some sort of flute or something.”

Nabalungi’s lips curl up into a smile. “Oh, yes. It is a kind of flute. We call it an _endere_.”

“An _endere_ ,” Connor repeats, getting the pronunciation _almost_ right.

“Very good!” She laughs lightly. “You are much better than Elder Cunningham. He keeps on calling me Nagasaki. Or _Nagini_.”

Connor lets out the smallest chuckle at the quip. Actually, it's barely even a chuckle, but it’s the closest thing to a laugh Kevin has heard from him in days and he feels a rush of _something_ shooting from his chest all the way down to his belly.

“Well, it really was beautiful,” McKinley says, his tone laced with a slight undercurrent of wistfulness. “Your playing, I mean.” 

“I could teach you how to play it,” Nabulungi offers excitedly, stepping towards him once more. “It isn’t very hard. It has only five holes.”

“Oh, um,” Elder McKinley hesitates, and from what little Kevin can see of his face, his cheeks are doing that light flushing thing they always do whenever he gets caught off guard. “Maybe,” he says, shrugging one of his shoulders. “I don’t know. We’ll see. I’ve been very busy with the, um… well, the you know.”

“Think about it,” she urges, a grin lighting up her face as she backs away. 

“I will.” Elder McKinley gives her a slight wave. “Good night, Nabulungi.”

“Good night. And good night to you, too, Elder Price,” she calls over McKinley’s shoulder with an exaggerated wave and what looks to be a rather teasing _wink_. 

Elder McKinley whips around at the name, nearly tripping over his own feet as he jumps back, looking embarrassed and startled at the fact that Kevin has been standing there the whole time, _watching_ them. 

They gaze at one another wordlessly for a moment and Kevin thinks that maybe, _just_ maybe, this will finally be his chance to talk to him, to talk to him _alone_ , but then the other man's eyes move down to Kevin’s torso and he begins backing away, his cheeks rapidly flushing a bright shade of pink. Kevin looks down to see what he’s staring at and it’s..

 _Fuck_. He’s still holding Elder McKinley’s goddamned _garments_.

He looks back up at Elder McKinley, to try and say something, but the other man is already making a beeline for the door, as Kevin is learning he often does in moments like these. He disappears into the house without a word and Kevin is once again left standing there, alone, looking rather dumb with his mouth hung part-way open, the beginnings of words dancing on the tip of his tongue. 

So much for Kevin's initial hope that Elder McKinley would be better at this than he is. He somehow manages to be even _worse_ , which is really saying something considering Kevin is absolute shit at it.

He gets the tingling of an idea, then, for how he might be able to get Elder McKinley alone long enough to talk, but he knows he’ll need to wait until later on that night to execute his plan. It’s probably a little crazy, now that he thinks about it, considering all the rules they are supposed to be following, but it might just be crazy enough to work. 

-

It starts—or ends, depending on how you look at it—with a note. 

Kevin waits for Elder Thomas to turn on the shower before leaning up against the door, manically scribbling it onto a piece of composition paper.

_Elder McKinley,_

_I think we should talk, in private. I found this old toolshed in the back of the property, near the side of the road. Meet me there around midnight tonight if you want to talk. I know it goes against about a dozen rules - I’m asking you to break them just this once._

He thinks about signing the note _Elder Price_ , but he doesn’t really care, anymore, about formalities, and signs it _Kevin_ , instead. Just Kevin. He slips it under Elder McKinley’s door and tries to ignore the pounding in his chest as he retreats back to his room. He slides into his bed next to an already-snoozing Elder Cunningham, where he plans to lie awake until the clock strikes 11. 

He doesn’t know if Elder McKinley will show or not. He probably won’t. But Kevin is still holding out hope that he will. 

He needs this. They both do.


	4. Talk

Connor doesn’t particularly want to leave the sanctity of his covers. It’s the only place he feels a modicum of safety, these days, but the sight of a piece of paper being shoved underneath his door is such a curious and strange sight to behold that he’s already halfway across the room before he has a chance to mull it over. 

It’s a letter, written in the most atrocious handwriting Connor has ever seen in his life. He can barely make it out, it’s that illegible, but it’s also from Elder Price and so he keeps on staring at it until he does.

_Elder McKinley,_

_I think we should talk, in private. I found this old toolshed in the back of the property, near the side of the road. Meet me there around midnight tonight if you want to talk. I know it goes against about a dozen rules - I’m asking you to break them just this once._

_\- Kevin_

The _toolshed_. Something clicks in Connor’s brain, then, and he looks up, blinking in the direction of the window. So _that’s_ where he’s been going off to every day. The _toolshed_.

Connor glances down at the clock. 9:55. He has at least an hour to decide what to do. Not that there’s much of a decision to make. As much as he isn’t looking forward to it, he knows as well as Kevin that they really _do_ need to talk. There are things that need to be said between them or else nothing around here will ever get back to normal. Not that Connor really knows what _normal_ is anymore. Normal used to mean knocking on strangers’ doors day after day, praying that at least _one_ of them might be interested in the Church, all while making sure his Elders were safe, fed, and healthy.

But, now. Well, let’s just say a normal day for Connor looks a heck of a lot different, now.

He folds up the letter when he hears the bathroom door click open and tucks it beneath his covers. Chris can’t find out about this. Luckily for Connor, his companion is a very sound sleeper, which means he shouldn’t have any trouble sneaking outside in an hour or so to go meet Kevin. 

He shifts his gaze back to the window, staring out at the blackness that envelops the trees. _Outside_.

Connor used to love the outside. Fresh air in his lungs, warm sun on his skin, fallen leaves crunching beneath his feet. But, now, he isn’t so sure how he feels about it. He hasn't been outside since _it_ happened. He did agree to start going door-to-door again with Chris starting tomorrow, to try and quell some of his companion’s worries about his fragile mental state, but that’s—that’s different. He’ll be with his companion. He won’t be alone.

But tonight…. Well, he certainly isn’t going to walk there _with_ Elder Price. That would be entirely too awkward to fathom. No, he needs to wait until he sees Elder Price walking towards the shed from the safety of his window to even _entertain_ the possibility of leaving the house, which means he’ll be forced to walk over a quarter mile to the toolshed, in the dark, _alone_. 

_I can do this_ , he thinks as he wishes his companion a good night and clicks off the small table lamp that sits between them. He can be brave. He _has_ to be. The strangeness of the note, of this entire situation, demands that he at least _try_ , no matter how scary or uncomfortable it’s bound to be. Elder Price has gone to great lengths to get him alone, he must have something he wants to say. 

Turns out being brave is a lot harder than it sounds. It starts with a rather lengthy internal debate over what to wear to their midnight rendezvous. His choices are A) just his garments or B) his full missionary regalia or C) something else, something Elder Price has never seen him in. Normal people clothes.

He quickly decides the garments are out. Most of the Elders don them at night as pajamas, despite that it goes against protocol, but he thinks Elder Price has probably seen enough of Connor in inappropriate attire for one lifetime and doesn't need to see anymore. The reminder of exactly how much Elder Price _has_ seen sends a hot blush over his cheeks and he’s once again overwhelmed by the crippling weight of shame and humiliation. 

_No, no, no_. He slams his eyes shut. _We don’t need to think about_ that _right now._

He decides to seize the unique opportunity to let Elder Price see him in regular clothes. They weren’t allowed to bring many of those, however, leaving Connor with just two options: a fitted white sweatshirt and a rather cute pair of gray sweatpants that show just a little bit of ankle or… a tuxedo. A literal five-piece tuxedo that his mother made him pack just in case he needed to attend a formal event. He settles on the sweats and a pair of black Converse that he never gets to wear because _all missionaries must wear plain, black dress shoes at all times._ Except during exercise, of course, and Converse are much too impractical for that. 

He sneaks into the bathroom and gets dressed without waking Chris, where he runs a nervous hand through his hair and carefully inspects his appearance. He tells himself he cares about how he looks for _him_ , that he wants to maintain the guise of his alleged _fine_ -ness and that he would be doing the exact same thing regardless of which Elder would be waiting for him in that shed. He doesn’t have those kinds of _feelings_ for men. Not anymore. He’s only wearing this because he doesn’t get many opportunities to wear secular clothing and wants to take advantage of the opportunity. It has nothing to do with Elder Price. Elder Price could be Elder _Thrice_ for all he cares and he’d still be doing the exact same thing. 

He slides back into bed and keeps his eyes trained firmly on the window. It isn’t until 11:27 that he finally spots Elder Price, moonlight sifting through his hair as he makes his way down the red dirt path, yellow lantern hanging from his wrist. Connor watches him for a long time, until his moonlit hair and the dim glow of the lantern disappear into the night. 

Checking to make sure his companion is still fast asleep, Connor quietly bolts out of the room, grabs a flashlight, and heads for the front door, only to find himself unable to actually _leave_. He stays frozen in place for a full five minutes, eventually growing into ten and then fifteen. He tries to clasp the doorknob, to waltz right out of here as if everything is normal and safe and fine, but he knows, deep down, that nothing is normal or safe or fine, not anymore, and so he just stands there, paralyzed, his pale, outstretched hand trembling only inches from the knob.

* * *

Kevin paces the length of the toolshed over and over again. It’s dark in here, illuminated only by a sliver of moonlight shining in through the window and the warm glow of the lantern he found in the utility closet.

He glances down at his watch. 12:21. Twenty-one minutes late. He’s _twenty-one minutes late_. And if there’s anything Kevin has learned about Elder McKinley over the very few normal days they had together prior to their ordeal it’s that he is always punctual. Annoyingly so. 

_That’s it_. He runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. _He isn’t coming_. After all this worry, all this preamble, all of the words and apologies he’s been rehearsing over and over in his mind, Elder McKinley isn’t even going to _show_. It was a stupid idea, Kevin curses himself as he paces. It was a really _stupid_ idea and Elder McKinley is going to think _he’s_ stupid for even coming up with it and then things will be even _more_ awkward between them then they already are and everything is just…

But then the door makes that _creak_ sound it always does whenever it opens and Kevin whips around, just in time to find a hesitant-looking Elder McKinley poking his head through the crack, shining a flashlight into the room before stepping all the way inside.

Kevin blinks a few times. He came. He actually... _came_.

The door clicks shut behind him and it sounds ten times louder and more abrasive than usual. _Everything_ feels suddenly amplified. The sound of the birds chirping beyond the walls. The smell of musty old gas cans and chipped paint. The tightness in his chest, of his heart thumping with a ruthlessness he hasn’t felt since… well, since the camp.

“Hey,” Elder McKinley says, sounding slightly out of breath as he lowers his flashlight and makes his way into the room.

“Hey.” Kevin’s lips are parted in shock, his gaze locked on Connor’s darkened frame. He still can’t believe his eyes. “You came.” 

Despite the tension, he is unable to stop his mouth from pulling into a tentative smile. It falters, however, the moment Elder McKinley steps all the way into the light and Kevin can finally get a good look at him. He’s facing downward, one of his hands clutching at his heaving chest. His breathing is noticeably labored. Beads of sweat line his forehead, glittering under the light.

Kevin’s face falls. “Did you run here?” 

Connor nods, hand still clutched to his chest as he steps further into the room.

“Oh.” Kevin’s frown turns sad. “You didn’t have to. I would’ve waited.”

“It’s fine.” 

McKinley waves it off. His breaths gradually even out as he takes a good look at their surroundings, curious blue eyes darting over the dirtied wood walls and the dusty old objects contained therein. He seems to be avoiding Kevin’s gaze at all costs, much like he always does, but that’s okay. Kevin is just glad he came at all.

The realization hits him once again. He’s _here_. Elder McKinley is actually _here_. They’re going to talk. _Finally_.

Kevin clears his throat. “There, um. There aren’t any chairs or anything, but I cleared off a spot for us on the floor.” He points to a small space against the side wall, where the lantern casts a soft glow against the wood. 

Connor nods in acknowledgment, but makes no move to take a seat. He runs a slow hand over the back wall and asks, “So, is this where you’ve been going?” 

The question takes Kevin aback, as he’s unsure how Elder McKinley could possibly know that he’s been _going_ anywhere. As far as he should be aware, he’s been helping Arnold with the villagers day in and day out.

“My bed is next to the window,” Connor answers the unspoken question as he turns and faces Kevin, finally meeting his eyes as he steps into the light. He lowers himself onto the floor and leans back against the wall. All of his movements seem slow and hesitant. “You go down that path every day and don’t come back until six.”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” A blush warms Kevin’s cheeks and he involuntarily tugs at the back of his neck. “I found this place the other day, after we—” he stops short, taking in a hard, nervous swallow, “after we got back.” He then mirrors Connor’s movements by taking a seat on the floor, as well. Close enough to be visible in the small circle of light, but far enough away to give Elder McKinley a good amount of personal space. “I didn’t realize you could see me from... from the window.” 

He expects Elder McKinley to chastise him for breaking the rules, for ignoring his missionary duties, for leaving his companion unattended for days, but he doesn’t do any of those things. He just nods in understanding without asking any of the follow-up questions the old Elder McKinley would have asked. Things like _Aren’t you supposed to be keeping an eye on Elder Cunningham?_ Or _That goes against rule such and such and rule whatever and I’m reporting this to the Mission President the moment we get back._

But that version of Elder McKinley is long gone, Kevin thinks sadly. This one just curls his knees to his chest and takes another look around.

“Seemed like a good place to get some quiet,” Kevin supplies and scoots back against the wall. He follows the other man’s gaze to an assortment of objects at the other end of the shed, where some old sports equipment and a rusty grill are covered in dust and spider webs. He clears his throat again before adding, “I don’t think anyone else knows about it.”

Connor nods, but doesn’t say anything else on the matter. It’s far too quiet to feel anywhere close to comfortable, the only sounds being the slight flickering of the lamp and the birds and insects outside the walls that always seem louder at night. 

Kevin opens his mouth to speak. After all, it’s he who has been waiting days to get Elder McKinley alone so they could talk. But this entire thing is far more awkward than he ever expected it to be and promptly shuts it. He has so much he wants to say, so many apologies to make, but now that they’re actually _alone_ , like this, it’s as if all of the words he’s been rehearsing in his head just kind of… fell out. 

Maybe he should just… open his mouth and unleash all of the pent-up guilt and regret and apologies that have been threatening to burn him from the inside out ever since it happened, but he isn’t sure that’s the right way to go either. 

They sit in silence for a while, Kevin watching the way Connor keeps fidgeting nervously in his seat. It’s obvious how uncomfortable this whole thing is making him and Kevin can’t blame him for that. He just wishes he could find the right words to make all of it easier.

“Connor,” he blurts out, instead, prompting Elder McKinley to look up at him in surprise. “In the kitchen the other day, I heard Elder Thomas call you Connor. Is that your name?”

Elder McKinley gazes at him for a long moment before looking back down with a nod. 

“Do you mind if I call you that?” He gently prods. “I mean, just… just when we’re alone together. Like this.”

“Sure,” Connor shrugs, and the numbness in his voice is slightly unnerving, “Whatever.”

Kevin’s face falls and he spends a minute or two letting his eyes linger on the man sitting next to him, trying to figure out the best way to broach this. “If you don’t want me to, that’s—”

“I said it’s fine,” Connor snaps, and Kevin finds himself shrinking back a little at the sharp tone. He wants to talk, to say something, _anything_ , but Connor’s shields seem to be up on full force this evening and he doesn’t want to push him. 

“I’m sorry,” Connor sighs and closes his eyes, looking disappointed with himself. He shakes his head and turns away from Kevin. “I don’t know why I keep doing that.” He looks down at his lap, where he takes to pulling at the hem of his sweatshirt. “You’ve been trying to talk to me for days and I just keep on…” His words get broken up by a sharp breath and Kevin can tell he’s trying his hardest to maintain his composure. “I don’t know why I’m being like this.”

The corner of Kevin’s mouth pulls into a sad smile. “I think I can hazard a guess.”

“No, I know,” Connor shakes his head, “but it’s no excuse. Not after everything you’ve done for me.” He lets out a mournful sigh. “I’m sorry.” He blinks several times, as if to hold back tears, and an unexpected sniffle breaks up his words. “I’m so sorry.”

The words tug at Kevin’s heart and despite the fact that they provide him with the perfect opportunity to give Connor his own overdue apology, he wishes the other man would stop saying them.

“Don’t be _sorry_ ,” Kevin says, sounding aghast at the notion. He leans in and places a gentle hand atop Connor’s leg. “You have no reason to be sorry. _I’m_ the one who should be sorry.” 

Connor looks up with a sniffle and the way his face is lined with confusion leaves Kevin feeling even more bewildered.

“ _I’m_ the one who decided to go there.” Kevin points to his own chest. “ _I’m_ the one who got us into this mess. _I’m_ the one who should be sorry.” He pauses a moment, regret washing over him as his eyes flicker over the details of Elder McKinley’s face. “And I am.” He searches his eyes for forgiveness, despite the fact that they are absent of blame. “I am so, _so_ sorry.” He shakes his head, and he honestly isn't sure if he'll ever be able to communicate exactly how much he means that. “I can’t even express to you how sorry I am,” he tries, not even caring how badly his voice is breaking. “For going there. For being so stupid. For making you come after me. I just. I can’t even—”

“You saved me,” Elder McKinley says, the bluntness of his tone taking Kevin back a little. His blue eyes look glassy, now, shiny and unfocused as they stay locked with Kevin’s. “They were going to hurt me and you saved me,” he repeats, as though he still can’t believe it. Kevin watches a lone tear spill out of one of his eyes. “You could have _died_ ,” he says, seriously. “You know that, right?”

“I—” Kevin stammers, fumbling a little under the unexpected praise. Well, he isn’t sure _praise_ is the right word, but—but whatever _this_ is that he desperately wants to deflect. “I—I don’t think they would’ve actually _shot_ me,” he stutters, running a nervous hand through his hair. “They were probably just trying to scare me.”

“The general shot that man the other day,” Elder McKinley reminds him, sounding just as blunt as before. “You could have been _killed_.”

Kevin opens his mouth to reply, to retort, but nothing comes out.

“You shouldn't have intervened.” Elder McKinley turns away, and there is a finality to his tone that leaves no room for rebuttal. “It was reckless and dangerous.”

Kevin sits there in silence for a while, mouth hung part-way open. He knows he needs to explain himself, to make Elder McKinley understand, but he has trouble finding the right words.

“I—I just... I couldn’t let them do that to you,” Kevin eventually musters out. “If I didn’t stop them, they were going to...” He tries to say the words, but they catch in his throat. He can’t say them. He just _can’t_. “You would’ve died, too,” he settles on, instead. “If I didn’t stop them.” His eyes well with tears as they desperately try to lock with Connor’s. “Maybe not right away,” he adds, “but eventually.”

The hard lines etched into Elder McKinley’s face soften just a little, turning sad and embarrassed at the reminder of what almost happened to him, what those men were going to _do_ to him if Kevin hadn’t intervened. He shrinks back into himself, losing whatever bit of confidence he’d managed to regain. 

“Thank you,” he says in a deflated whisper and wipes at his eyes. “I don't know how I’ll ever repay you for this.”

“ _Repay_ me?” Kevin sputters, blinking a few times in shock. “No, no, you don’t have to—you don’t have to _repay_ me. I’m just glad you’re okay, that’s all. Besides, you were the one trying to save _me_ , remember?” He pointedly reminds him. “If you hadn’t come after me, they would have…”

He stops short of saying the actual words. Words like _assault_ or _rape_ or _AIDS_. His mouth runs dry at the mere thought of them and he can feel his hands beginning to tremble.

“What they were going to do to you,” he settles on, carefully, “they would have done to me, and there wouldn’t have been anyone there to stop them. Not if you hadn’t come. So I should actually be thanking _you_. For saving _me_.”

The next few minutes are quiet ones and Kevin can feel the tension in the room beginning to thicken, becoming palpable.

“Why did you do it?” Elder McKinley breaks the silence in a sad whisper, a fresh well of tears pooling in his eyes as he leans back against the wall, shaking his head. There is a pained expression on his face as he brings a hand to his lips, and Kevin can tell he is trying his best to stop the dam from breaking. “I mean, why on _Earth_ did you decide to go there?”

Kevin swallows hard and averts his gaze, looking anywhere he can except at Elder McKinley. The answer to that question is actually quite complicated and as he lingers on it, a whirlwind of memories swirl in his mind. He sees his father, placing a hand to his shoulder the night before he left on his mission, a series of expectations masking themselves as encouragement. He hears Elder Cunningham, going on and on about all the people he’s gotten interested in the Church in the mere few days they’ve been here. People who were supposed to listen to _Kevin_ , respect _Kevin_ , follow _Kevin_. He sees Elder McKinley, smiling with pride as he pats Elder Cunningham on the back, congratulating him on a job well done before proverbially shoving Kevin out of the way.

_If it’s working better this way, he can just leave Elder Price out of it._

“I mean, _really_ , Elder Price, what were you _thinking_?”

The question pulls Kevin from his thoughts and his eyes once again come into focus on Connor’s, whose blue eyes are drilling into his own with a sort of desperation, as though he still can’t believe Kevin would do such a reckless thing, to endanger his own life in the name of the Church.

“I guess I—I wasn’t,” Kevin says, and it isn’t a _total_ lie. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Clearly,” Elder McKinley says, softly. He doesn’t sound angry or accusatory, just very confused. Kevin watches the way he looks down and shakes his head, seeming unable to fathom why anyone would do such a crazy, ridiculous thing. Kevin doesn’t disagree with him. 

“You could have _died_ ,” Elder McKinley repeats, sounding just as flabbergasted as before. “And for what?” He laughs, bitterly. “A few _baptisms_?” 

He practically sneers as he says the words. They sound almost derisive and Kevin wonders if Elder McKinley is having the exact same doubts about their faith as he is. 

“Baptisms. The Mission President. The _Church_ …” Connor shakes his head and turns down to his lap. “Me,” he adds, followed by a hard swallow. He pauses a moment before looking back up and meeting Kevin’s eyes. “These things are not worth your _life_ , Elder Price,” he softens his tone to a pleading whisper. “Please try and remember that the next time you get the urge to be a hero, okay?”

Kevin doesn’t know how to respond. His jaw drops open, but nothing comes out, and so he just nods. He can’t go into his reasons for doing what he did. Not now. Not tonight. Maybe one day, he can. But not today. 

“Do you think we should tell someone?” Kevin asks, quietly. Most of the tears lining Connor’s eyes have dried. They are past the boiling point, now, he thinks, and it should only be upward from here. “The Mission President, I mean.”

Connor doesn’t meet Kevin’s eyes, just stares at the lamp in thought. “I will if you want me to,” he says after a beat. “But from what I’ve heard from others, it doesn’t make much of a difference.”

Kevin frowns. “What do you mean?”

Connor shrugs and looks down, picking at a hangnail on his finger. “The Church keeps everything very hush hush. They wouldn’t want word getting around that they sent us to a dangerous area. It’s more likely they’ll sweep the whole thing under the rug and insist we stay.”

Kevin nods. They don’t speak on it any further, but the silence provides an unspoken agreement that they wouldn’t be telling anyone. That’s probably just as well, he thinks. Kevin has heard the same horror stories as Elder McKinley and they both very well know how things would turn out if they do. 

The conversation eventually leads to the topic of insomnia, of which they’ve both been having non-stop since the camp. Kevin admits it first, telling Connor that he can’t seem to fall asleep no matter how tired he is and when he does, he’s just awoken minutes later by nightmares. Connor nods and admits the same and what was once a very heated conversation cools to a low simmer of shared truths and confessions. 

Talking to Connor feels easier, now, and Kevin finds the more they do, the more relaxed he becomes. As difficult as it was to talk about what happened, Kevin knows their conversation was productive. He feels better, now—much better—and he’s pretty sure Connor does, too.

“I’m thinking we could come here once in a while,” Kevin says after a time, his voice quiet and tentative. Connor turns to him with raised eyebrows. “If you want to, I mean,” he quickly amends, a hot blush prickling at his cheeks. “Only if you want to.”

Connor leans back against the wall and eyes him curiously. “What for?”

“I don’t know.” Kevin shrugs and looks down at his lap. He can feel the sweat seeping through his shirt. “Just to hang,” he nervously swallows. “Talk, not talk. Whatever.”

Connor considers it for a moment before slowly nodding. “That could be nice.”

Kevin smiles and they sit in silence for a while, watching the moonlight shining in from the window and bouncing off the various objects that lay strewn about the room. It feels comfortable, though, unlike before, all of the awkwardness and shame seeming to have dissipated along with the steam of their heated conversation. It feels calm and safe and right and Kevin could have honestly stayed like this all night, sitting in the quiet stillness with Connor, cobwebs and dust mites and six o’clock wake-ups be damned.

"Not to get all District Leader on you, but we should probably head to bed," Elder McKinley says after a while. He makes the move to stand, but pauses a moment, only to send Kevin what sort of resembles a smirk. “Unless you’ve also taken to sleeping here?”

“Yeah,” Kevin says, too transfixed by the sight of what may or may not be an actual _smirk_ on Connor’s face to really think about the question. “I mean, no, I don't—I don’t _sleep_ here. I meant that.. yeah, we should probably head back.”

Connor holds his gaze on him and, yes, there is _definitely_ a hidden smirk beneath his lips that Kevin can’t see so much as feel. They both stand up without looking at one another and slowly make their way towards the door. Connor places a hand on the dirty old knob, pausing a moment before turning back around.

"Your handwriting is terrible, by the way,” he says and holds up the note, a torn piece of composition paper covered in Kevin’s barely-legible scrawl. "I could barely make it out."

Kevin smiles. “But you did.”

Connor nods, that nearly-invisible-but-still-very-much-there almost-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he opens the door, holding it open for Kevin as he makes his way through.

They walk back out into the dark, the blackened sky overhead speckled with tiny sparkling stars. The air is cool and crisp with the smell of dew and burning firewood. They stay close together, as Kevin is scared and he’s pretty sure Connor is, too.

He feels the inexplicable urge to take Connor’s hand as they walk, though he knows that would be ridiculously inappropriate. He doesn’t know why he feels the compulsion to do so, as that isn’t something he’s ever wanted to do before, especially not with another man. He doesn’t actually _do_ it, of course. _God_ , no. Just... thinks about it. He supposes it’s probably because he knows what it’s like to hold Connor’s hand, as he held it for about twelve hours the other night after their assault. But that was different. That was a dire, life-and-death situation. There were injuries and tears and blood and they were faced with real and present danger. Emotions were heightened. Fear was all they knew. He would have held _anyone’s_ hand in that circumstance, had they just experienced what they did.

But, still—that doesn’t explain why he wants to take Elder McKinley’s hand, now.

He resists the urge, of course. For so many reasons, but mostly because Kevin is straight and Elder McKinley has made it quite clear that he’s trying his best to be and straight men don’t usually hold each other’s hands. At least, Kevin doesn’t _think_ they do. Do they? 

He’s never really thought about it. He’s held his brother’s hand plenty of times, sure, as well as his father’s, but that’s... that’s _different_. He’s sure he’s held Arnold’s hand once or twice, as well, now that he really thinks about it. Yes, he definitely has. But Arnold is a very touchy feely kind of person and he clearly has romantic feelings for Nabulungi and it’s just… that’s different, too. He’s fairly certain he’s never given the idea of taking someone’s hand as much conscious thought as he’s giving it now and he isn’t exactly sure what that means, but he thinks it must mean _something_. What that is, though, he honestly isn’t sure.

He ultimately decides to keep his hands to himself, balled into fists at his sides. He chalks the odd feeling up to the bizarre situation they’ve found themselves in. After all, he doesn’t exactly have a frame of reference for all this. He’s never watched another human being get treated the way… the way the General had treated Connor. He’s never gone through something like this alone or with another person and so these odd impulses are most likely just because of that. Yes, of course it is. Because the other possibility isn’t exactly something he can deal with right now. No, definitely not. And so he pushes the thought aside and tries to make small, inconsequential conversation as they traverse the blackened night with only their little yellow lamp and the nearly full moon lighting their way.

“I know what I can do for you,” Elder McKinley says, pausing in front of his bedroom door before turning around to face Kevin. “I can talk to the Mission President, ask him to see about transferring you to someplace better. I can’t guarantee anything, of course, but I can try. Where would you like to go?”

Kevin’s mouth gapes open for a moment before stuttering out a timid, “Oh, um. Orlando, actually.”

“Orlando,” Elder McKinley echoes and Kevin can tell he kind of wants to smile, but the pain and exhaustion simply won’t permit it. “Orlando as in... Disney?"

“Yeah,” Kevin lets out a shy laugh and lowers his gaze. “Disney.” He takes a moment to think before clearing his throat and elaborating. “When I was nine years old, my parents took us on a trip there. It was only for five days and I had to sleep on one of those horrible cots and my brother wouldn’t go on any of the rides with me, but that trip was still just… it was the best five days of my entire life. I just remember feeling so _happy_ there, you know? I didn’t have to worry about school or Church or God or my grades or anything, really. It’s like all of it just… disappeared and the only thing I had to worry about was getting in line for Space Mountain before the noon crowd showed up and eating all the junk food my mom never let me eat at home. It was just… incredible. I’ll never forget it.”

Elder McKinley gazes at him for a long moment, seemingly in deep thought. 

“Well, okay, Elder Price,” he eventually nods, “I'll do everything I can to make sure you get transferred to Orlando. The mission president is coming by in a few weeks to meet the villagers. I’ll ask him then.”

Kevin stares at him for a moment, jaw dropped open in shock. “Oh, um,” he tries to think of the best way to say this, but there isn’t any and so he just shakes his head, “you really don't have to do that.”

“I want to.” Elder McKinley leans back into his own door, a sad resignation evident in his eyes despite his obvious attempt at a polite smile. "Goodnight, Elder Price."

Kevin’s mouth opens and closes a few times and it takes him a moment before stuttering out an awkward, “Goodnight."

He isn’t sure how long he stands there, staring at the closed door, his mind reeling in a million different directions. 

_Orlando_. Elder McKinley is going to try and get him transferred to… to _Orlando_. 

The trouble is: he isn’t even sure he wants to go there. Not anymore. 

Of course, Orlando would pretty much guarantee him clean quarters and a functioning shower and McDonald’s. Oh, God, _McDonald’s_. He has been yearning for all of those things. But it’s all of the things Orlando _doesn’t_ have that tempts him the most. It doesn’t have malaria or rampant poverty or the slowest internet he’s ever used in his life. But most importantly, it doesn’t have the General.

But it also doesn’t have Connor and it doesn’t have Arnold and it doesn’t have the toolshed or the vast, open fields of elephant grass or burnt orange dirt to match the sunsets or Mafala or Nabulungi or warm Ugandan ginger tea served in homemade ceramic mugs and Kevin isn’t exactly certain as to _why_ , but all of those things feel incredibly important to him, now. Like some kind of unseen force is pulling him towards them, telling him he should try and hold onto them for as long as he can. Why that is, he can unpack later, but for now, all he knows is that he needs to stay. He needs these nights, these talks with someone who _gets_ it, who _understands_. He needs Elder McKinley—needs _Connor_ —and although he can’t be certain, he has a hunch that Connor might need him, too. 


	5. Rebellion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had most of this chapter written since October, but between working on my other WIPs and the holiday event, I wasn't able to get it edited and polished up until now. I am sorry that I am so slow, but it takes me a long time to write/edit these and I am also trying to finish Second Star at the same time. Thank you so much for bearing with me throughout my slow, sporadic updates and I sincerely hope you enjoy!

They arrange to meet in the toolshed several times over the next two weeks, despite the havoc it wreaks on their sleep. Not that they’ve been getting much of that, anyway, even on nights when they do go to bed on time. They don’t have a set schedule for when they will meet and so they have taken to using Kevin’s method of passing secret notes under their respective doors while their companions are in the shower.

_Tonight, 10:30, meet in the living room?_

_See you there :)_

But after Elder Thomas nearly intercepts Kevin’s note one evening after taking an unexpectedly short shower, they take to writing in code.

For Connor, that means an _actual_ code (of which Kevin is still having some trouble figuring out), and for Kevin, it means drawing. Usually a poorly-sketched rendering of the toolshed with the proposed time of the meet hidden somewhere within. A tiny _10:30_ etched into the windowpane or a barely-legible _midnight_ wrapped around the tails of one of the many animals he likes to draw, scampering around the outside of the shed. Some of them are based on the real life animals they see every day and some are entirely made up, like the _unicock_.

Connor chides him and tells him not to use the word _cock_. Kevin scoffs and tells him it means _rooster_ , not the other thing. Connor says he knows that, but that he shouldn’t be drawing half-breed rooster-unicorns, anyway. Apparently it’s “weird” and “sort of disturbing”. 

But Kevin doesn’t oblige, as he finds the way Connor rolls his eyes and chucks the balled-up note at his head with a hidden smile to be far too amusing to ever want to stop. In fact, it only makes him want to do it even more. That’s just how the brain works, he supposes. Rewards versus punishments and all that. And the exasperated-but-still-obviously-amused _look_ Connor gives him whenever a unicock shows up in his letter is _definitely_ in the reward sector. 

They don’t usually talk about _it_ whenever they meet, however, and Kevin sometimes wonders if maybe they should be, if that’s what all of this is supposed to be for, but it honestly just helps to have someone to talk to at all. Someone who _knows_ , even if the elephant in the room is a silent participant. The topics of conversation range from everything to nothing and all that lives in between and Kevin doesn’t know why, but he finds their late night talks are actually helping him quite a bit. He thinks they might be helping Elder McKinley, too. He has never admitted it aloud, but it isn’t lost on Kevin, the way he’s been smiling _just_ a little bit more than he was last week. How he’s been letting his guard down—letting the light back in—slowly, but surely. Almost enough to laugh. 

That’s sort of become Kevin’s goal, these days: to make Connor laugh. Has been ever since he saw that heart-framed photograph of Connor and the girl he thinks is his baby sister, smiling and laughing on the beach. 

Kevin may not know who he is, anymore, without his unwavering faith in the gospel, in the Church, as they’ve been the center of his world for as long as he can remember. He may not even know what it is he’s supposed to be _doing_ , these days, as working towards becoming the greatest Latter-Day Saint, the best missionary the Church has ever seen, is the only purpose he’s ever really had. His one and only dream, flushed down the metaphorical toilet. But he thinks that if he can manage to undo even a fraction of the damage he’s done; if he can be the guy who makes Connor laugh, again, then at least he’ll feel as though he’s accomplished _something_. Something important. Something he never thought in a million years would mean as much to him as it does.

He knows the Church or his parents or even their fellow Elders would never deem such a frivolous activity as being a worthy goal—and _certainly_ not one to replace his lifelong aspiration of excelling as a missionary. No, they would much rather he push past all of his doubts, re-commit himself to the teachings, to the Church, as if they didn’t narrowly escape death at the hands of the General. They would tell him to go back to his duties, to serve the Church, as though nothing ever happened. 

But he knows, deep down, that he can never do that. He can’t give up another nineteen years of his life to serving people he knows don’t really care about him; who lied to him, tricked him, used him to further their own agenda; who promised him two years of excitement and glory, only to put him and his fellow missionaries into a risky and dangerous situation. A situation that nearly got both of them killed. 

Well, _fuck_ them. _Fuck_ the Church. He has a new objective, now. A new purpose. And that is trying his damndest to make Connor laugh, again. Just like in the picture. Exactly like that. 

* * *

Connor is back to spending his days exactly as he’s supposed to: proselytizing with Elder Thomas, but it’s all just for show. His mind is always elsewhere. Sometimes it goes to bad places, like the General’s camp or Bishop Hansen’s office, and sometimes it goes to good places, like the toolshed. Mostly the toolshed. Mostly to Elder Price.

Every night, after the sound of his companion turning on the shower permeates the thin walls of the house, he waits for Elder Price to slide a note beneath his door. He doesn’t, most nights, but it’s always exciting whenever he does. He doesn’t want to seem weird or desperate for the company, and so he usually waits for Elder Price to initiate the exchange, but every once in a while Connor does, too. He doesn’t want to give Elder Price the impression that he doesn’t look forward to their hangouts, but he doesn't want to appear too eager, either. It’s a thin line, but one that Connor thinks he’s been walking rather well.

He’s learned many things about Elder Price—about _Kevin_ —over these past two weeks. For starters, he’s both insanely smart and insanely stupid. He’s probably the stupidest smart person Connor has ever met in his life. He has no doubt that Kevin excelled in school, earning perfect grades and honors the entirety of his childhood and adolescence. He’s a quick learner and determined to succeed. That much is obvious. But when it comes to emotions and common sense, Connor wonders how he hasn’t been taken advantage of sooner, even before the incident with the General. Anyone who has the gumption to walk into a crazy warlord’s camp like that has _got_ to be lacking at least _some_ common sense. That, or perhaps all of those uninhibited emotions Kevin lets flop out of him like fish out of water are _just_ strong enough to make him momentarily forget it. 

Connor isn’t quite sure which. There are times when he can literally _see_ the emotions in Kevin’s eyes, in his mannerisms, his tone of voice—he doesn’t usually make an effort to hide them—and then there are other times, usually while veering towards certain topics of conversation, where getting Kevin to open up is like pulling teeth. So much so that Connor sometimes thinks he might be the most reserved person he’s ever met.

An enigma. That’s what Kevin is. One that Connor is getting closer and closer to cracking with each passing day. 

He sometimes wonders if Kevin sees him as an enigma, as well. After all, he _does_ go to great lengths to keep his feelings in check, to stop them from spilling out all over the place the way Kevin’s do. He’s quite good at it, too. At least, he _thinks_ he is. But then Kevin will smile that rare, genuine smile of his, late at night in the darkness of the toolshed, moonlight sifting in through the tiny window, and Connor will feel his normally-impenetrable walls begin to crack. Not all the way, of course. But enough. Just enough to keep Kevin coming back for more. And that’s the way he intends it to stay.

Sometimes they sit back against opposite walls of the toolshed, facing one another, and other times they lay parallel to each other, backs against the dusty hardwood floor, arms stretched out beside them. Close enough to hear each other breathe, but never actually touching. And then they typically just… talk. 

Their conversations are an enigma in and of themselves, paradoxical in the way they are both stunted and open, open and closed. There are times when talking, even about something as innocuous as the weather, feels awkward and strained, and yet there are other times when Connor thinks he’s never felt more relaxed with another human being in his life. 

There are some nights in which they don’t talk much at all, just lay next to one another and stare up at the ceiling. Sometimes one of them will break the silence with a random thought or question. Connor thinks it should be awkward, whenever that happens, but it isn’t. Not really. 

Kevin will inevitably roll over onto his side at some point, usually as the late night hour creeps into early morning, coming dangerously close to grazing Connor’s arm as he lets out a yawn. A big, loud, stupid yawn where his jaw nearly detaches from his face; the kind Connor’s mother would have scolded him for. 

“M’ sleepy,” he’ll drawl out into his folded arm, eyes part-way to closed, and after a few minutes of enjoying the view, Connor will tell him it’s time to get up and go back inside. Kevin always protests—whines, actually—but Connor always makes him do it, anyway. 

Sleeping together (in the literal sense, not the other thing) is something Connor hasn’t been willing to do just yet. He isn’t sure why, but he thinks it’s like crossing some sort of invisible boundary that he just isn’t ready to cross just yet. He knows it’s illogical, as he could have very well been paired with Elder Price as a companion and if they were companions, they would have been sleeping next to each other every night for the past few weeks without ever thinking twice about it. But there’s just something about doing it _here_ , in the toolshed, that feels different for Connor. And he just isn’t quite ready to take that step.

Still, he’s begun to look forward to seeing Elder Price—seeing _Kevin_. And even if they don’t talk about _it_ very often, there is still something comforting about being with someone who knows exactly what happened. He likes that Kevin lets him go quiet for a while, lets him think on things without ever pressuring him to say more than he wants to. Sometimes they talk a lot and sometimes they go hours without saying a single word. There is no doubt in his mind that he will miss this, once he speaks on Kevin’s behalf to the Mission President and asks for him to be transferred to Orlando. 

He doesn’t want him to go, of course, but it’s the least he can do after… after everything Kevin’s done for him. And as for Connor… well, Connor will just have to suck it up and do what he does best: push it down, force a smile, and turn it off. 

* * *

The toolshed is small enough so that the bottoms of their feet are able to touch each other, even when they are leaning against opposite walls. Sometimes Kevin makes them touch and Connor rolls his eyes with that cute little blush of his. He isn’t sure why Connor blushes every time he does it, or why he thinks it’s cute whenever he does, but he’s trying not to dwell on it. His new thing is ‘living in the moment’ and not dwelling too much on that which he cannot control, like what happened to them at the camp or the way he’s been doubting everything he’s been taught to believe.

Getting Connor to do the same has been slightly more of a challenge, as he’s back slaving away with Elder Thomas day after day, proselytizing and spreading the ‘word’. Kevin doesn’t understand how he can stomach it after what they’ve been through. He is glad, however, that he is feeling well enough and strong enough to do so, even if he is back to doing the Church’s bidding.

It’s been just over three weeks since the _incident_ and talking with Connor has gotten steadily easier since then. He doesn’t really know how they land on some of the topics they do during their late-night toolshed sessions, from Kevin’s alleged “uncultured taste in music” (according to Connor’s assessment, anyway, which is _obviously_ flawed), to the hypothetical question of whether or not Elder Thomas would, in fact, choose a case of free strawberry pop-tarts over the chance to go home early without any negative consequences. Kevin thinks the case of pop-tarts would win out, as he’s seen firsthand how ravenous the blond-haired boy can be for the sugary processed breakfast food, while Connor is _certain_ his companion’s fear of contracting malaria would outweigh even his most base desire for pop-tarts. And, sometimes, the topic of conversation veers in a slightly more serious direction, like today.

“So, how has it been for you?” Kevin asks, finally drumming up the nerve to ask Connor what he’s been aching to ask him for weeks. “Going out there and preaching with Elder Thomas, again, as though nothing’s changed?” 

Connor lifts his head from the book in his lap—labelled _The Life and Times of Joseph Smith_ , though Kevin is starting to think that’s just a smokescreen for something else—and looks at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, aren’t you having any _doubts_?” Kevin asks, a bit more emphatically than intended. He isn’t trying to sound accusatory, he just _really_ wants to know. “After everything we’ve been through, I think it’s pretty clear the universe doesn’t work the way we were told. We went out there to do God’s work and what did we get for it?” The words are laced with bitterness. “ _Pain_ ,” he spits out, angrily. “That’s what we got for it. We got _pain_.”

He turns back to the partially-deflated basketball in his hands that he’s been tossing and spinning on his finger for the past half hour. He’s tired of this. Tired of only seeing Elder McKinley in the middle of the night. Tired of hiding out all day, in the toolshed, alone, when they could be out… _doing_ things. Doing all of the things they’ve been told not to do their entire lives; things they’ve willingly deprived themselves of in the name of scripture. But now… now he feels untethered, even though to the Church’s knowledge, he still is very much tethered. But he doesn’t _feel_ tethered, anymore, which he supposes is at least one good thing to come as a result of his reckless decision to confront the General. 

“Of course I’m having _doubts_ ,” Connor replies. The snort is silent, but heavily implied. “I’ve been having _doubts_ for months.” He pauses a moment, looking slightly ashamed. "Even before all this.” 

“Well, don’t you think we should _do_ something about it?” Kevin presses, sounding even more desperate than before. “Now that we’re all… woke, or whatever?”

A pair of blue eyes twinkle at him from across the room, much as they always do whenever he says something that Connor deems amusing, but utterly ridiculous. He has called Kevin just that— _ridiculous_ —on several occasions, and they’ve only known each other for just shy of four weeks. Kevin doesn’t exactly _agree_ with that assessment, of course, but if it makes Connor smile, then so be it. 

“I’m serious,” Kevin says, but a soft chuckle escapes his throat, regardless. “Isn’t there a part of you that wants to just… go out there and do something you’ve never been allowed to do before? Like just… go to Starbucks and drink a cup of coffee or something? Like normal nineteen-year-olds get to do?” 

“Sure, I guess.” Connor shrugs. “Those frozen frappuccino things _do_ look pretty tasty.”

“Exactly!” Kevin exclaims. “And just because some clown two-hundred years ago decided that ingesting caffeine was sinful, that means _we_ don’t get to enjoy frappuccinos.” He breathes out a scoff. “I mean, doesn’t that feel kind of _wrong_ to you?”

Connor’s expression is still one of amusement, no matter how earnest Kevin is trying to be, and the longer he stares at him like that, with that goddamned _lip_ of his twitched up in a wry smile, the more Kevin’s resolve begins to crack.

“What?” He eventually asks, allowing his mouth to curl up just a little. “You think this is funny?” 

Connor nods and bites down on his bottom lip. 

“No, this isn’t _funny_ , Connor. This is serious,” he says, though he’s honestly struggling to keep a straight face. “I’m getting up tomorrow and I’m getting myself a _goddamned_ cup of coffee. And not some watered down sugary crap disguised as coffee, either. I’m talking about the _real_ deal.”

The grandiose statement of rebellion provokes a sudden snort-laugh from Connor, causing him to keel over his lap, and Kevin’s heart flip-flops in his chest. 

He did it. He actually _did_ it. He made Connor _laugh_ , after nearly three weeks of trying to do nothing but. Granted, he wasn’t even trying this time. And it wasn’t even a full laugh, either. More like a short, barely-stifled snort that came and went in under a second. And it certainly wasn’t as big or open or carefree as the one in the photograph. But it was still a _laugh_ , which, in Kevin’s mind, earns him at least one point. 

“Alright, alright,” Connor says as he sits back up. “So, where are you even getting this coffee? Last I checked, there aren’t any _Starbucks_ around here.” 

“There’s a cafe down the street. I passed it when I came in,” Kevin says. “We’re going there tomorrow and we’re getting a cup of coffee, rules be damned.” 

“ _We_?” Connor arches an eyebrow, looking once again surprised.

“Yeah,” Kevin swallows, the sudden lump in his throat making the act slightly painful, “We.”

Connor stares at him curiously as he leans back against the wall, looking both fascinated and amused. His laughter has dissipated, but his eyes are still smiling. Kevin resumes his spinning of the basketball, this time with two fingers on either side. 

They are quiet for a few moments until Kevin clears his throat and asks, “So, what’s something you’ve always wanted to do?” 

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know, something you’ve always wanted to do, but couldn't, because it goes against the rules or your parents wouldn’t let you. Like my thing’s the coffee...” he gestures with his hand. “What’s yours?”

“Oh.” Connor sits up a little straighter, looking caught off guard at the question. He goes quiet for a long moment and Kevin can see the wheels visibly turning in his mind, as if trying to pick from an array of many options. Kevin doesn’t blame him—the Church has quite the laundry list of sinful activities young boys their age are _not_ supposed to take part in, especially while serving a mission. It can be difficult to choose just one. 

"Well, I’ve always wanted to play the flute,” Connor eventually replies, his lightly-freckled cheeks turning the slightest shade of pink with the admittance. 

“The flute?” Kevin echoes in surprise, as that one certainly isn’t on any of the Church’s ‘sin lists’. At least, none that Kevin’s seen. “Oh, that’s _right_ ,” he adds, the conversation he overheard a few weeks ago suddenly rushing back to him. “I heard you mention that to Nabulungi.” 

“Yeah.” Connor nods, looking down with a sad smile. “She offered to teach me, but I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“What’s there to think about?” Kevin frowns, staring straight ahead at the ball balanced on the tip of his finger. “You want to learn and she’s willing to teach you. It’s a win-win.”

“Well, for starters, I have _Elder T_ _homas_.”

Ah, yes, Kevin thinks. Elder Thomas. The reason they can only meet in the toolshed in the middle of the night like a couple of fugitives instead of during the day, like normal people. If anyone is a stickler for the rules, it’s Elder Thomas, and he’s only upped his obedience since their little run-in with the General. Kevin knows that Elder Thomas isn’t privy to the exact details, only that something—something bad—happened to his companion. 

“He’s my friend and I love him to pieces,” Connor continues, “but he’s been glued to my ass ever since it happened. Do you know he actually tried to come into the _bathroom_ with me the other day?” He nearly laughs at his own quip, but the sad expression on his face seems to prevent it. “I know he’s just worried about me and all, but still. The bathroom is a _big_ no no. And besides,” he lets out a sigh, “it’s better to learn an instrument when you're a kid. Your brain is more malleable or something.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Kevin asks, genuinely curious. “Learn when you were a kid.” 

“Oh, um.” Connor shifts in place, looking once again caught off guard. “My dad didn’t think it was a very good idea.”

“Why not?” Kevin makes a face. He watches the way Connor’s mouth drops open a little, the color in his cheeks rapidly deepening, and hopes he didn’t accidentally strike a nerve. 

“I don’t know.” He clears his throat, lowering his gaze to his shoes. “He probably thought it was too girly or something.” 

“Too _girly_?” Kevin’s confusion turns to a full-on frown. “Most parents would kill to have a kid who wants to play an instrument. I quit the saxophone in sixth grade and my mother _still_ hasn’t forgiven me.”

“My father is a real... man’s man,” Connor explains, “and I’m…” he trails off, blushing once again as he gestures to himself. 

“Oh.” The word falls softly from Kevin’s mouth, the sad realization of exactly what Connor means settling over him like an unwelcome embrace. “Well, then you _definitely_ have to do it.”

Connor tilts his head to the side, a bemused half-smile playing at his lips. “Why?” He asks. “Because my _daddy_ didn’t let me?”

“Yes,” Kevin replies with emphasis. “Exactly.” 

Connor shakes his head in that way he does, that amused half-smile on his face curving slowly into a grin. “You know, some of us already went through our rebellious phase at age sixteen, like we’re supposed to.”

“Your ‘rebellious phase’?” Kevin snorts and resumes his spinning of the tattered basketball. “What kinds of rebellious activities could a sixteen-year-old Mormon from rural Utah _possibly_ get up to?”

“You know…” Connor waves a hand, as though that should mean something. “The usual.” He pauses, looking suddenly self-conscious. “Rebellious things.”

“Uh huh,” Kevin says flatly and continues to spin the ball.

Connor folds his arms across his chest, making a face as he leans back against the wall, and Kevin doesn’t exactly hate the way he looks whenever he gets all huffy and annoyed. “I happened to be a very rebellious teenager, thank you very much.” 

Kevin smiles and scoots just a little bit closer, enough to accidentally bump his knee against the bottom of Connor’s shoe. 

“So, in Mormon speak, you mean: looking at dirty pictures on your phone after your parents went to sleep and sneaking into R-rated movies with your friends—who, by the way, are also Mormon—and then leaving at the first sight of blood?” Kevin asks, thoroughly enjoying the way Connor wrinkles his brow and squirms a little in his seat. It isn’t nearly as gratifying as making him laugh, but it is a close second. “Did I get that right?”

“Yeah, well, at least I _had_ a rebellious phase,” Connor huffs, keeping his arms folded firmly across his chest. “I bet you’ve never even _seen_ an R-rated movie,” he says, pointedly. “ _Or_ a dirty picture.” He wiggles his eyebrows as he says the last few words, probably just to make Kevin blush. He does. 

“You're right, I haven’t,” Kevin admits. “But I'm making up for all that now.” He gives the basketball another spin, watching as the corner of Connor’s mouth once again turns up in amusement. “So, what do you say?”

Connor peers at him for a long moment. “I’d say you're taking this whole rebellion thing a _little_ too seriously.” 

Kevin sighs. “My _point_ is: you didn't get to do what you really wanted, right? You’ve always wanted to play the flute. So... play the fucking flute.”

“Language, Elder Price,” he chides in that way that lets him know he doesn't really mean it. “And, yeah, I’d _like_ to, but I don’t see how it’s possible. I’m stuck going door-to-door with Elder Thomas all day and the man literally won’t let me out of his sight. I was _not_ kidding about the bathroom.” 

“Well, maybe you can get him to leave you alone somehow.”

Connor snorts. “How?”

“I don’t know.” Kevin shrugs. “Make something up.” 

“Like what?”

“I already said: I don’t know.”

“Very helpful.”

“You’re smart.” Kevin smiles. “You’ll think of something.”

Connor makes a _hmph_ sound, but it’s obvious by the look in his eyes that the words have gotten him thinking. “For the record, lying and making up stories was never one of my rebellious activities. Even if I _can_ think of something, there’s no guarantee he’ll even believe me.”

“Well, you said you’ve done some acting, right?” Kevin asks and tosses him the ball. “In high school?”

Connor catches it and looks at him curiously. “Yes,” he replies, and tosses it back. “So?”

“So, just think of it as an audition.” Kevin pulls the ball to his side, smirking a little as he stands. He doesn’t really care how obnoxious he probably sounds, as the stifled laugh the words provoke out of Connor more than makes up for it. 

“Tomorrow morning,” he extends a hand down to Connor, beckoning him to take it, “Coffee, then flute. Are you with me or not?”

“Tomorrow’s no good. I need time to talk to Elder Thomas.”

“Thursday, then,” Kevin rolls his eyes and wiggles his fingers, “Are you with me or not?”

Connor thinks on it for a moment or two before sighing in concession. “ _Fine._ ” He latches onto Kevin’s hand, leaning into it a little as he stands, then quickly lets it go. “Coffee, then flute.”

Kevin grins. “You won’t regret it, I promise.” 

“Oh, I’m sure I will.” 

* * *

Connor isn’t sure at which point he stopped caring about the Church or their baptisms or even his duties as District Leader, but the fact that he is even _entertaining_ this idea shows just how astray he has gone. He doesn’t want to dwell on it, though, as the idea that he’s breaking so many of the rules fills him with tremendous guilt, but he just doesn’t believe in the teachings the same way he used to. He isn’t sure what he believes, anymore. 

Still, he hasn’t gone totally rogue. Other than sneaking off to the toolshed in the middle of the night and bringing a few secular books and music along with him on his mission, he hasn't broken any of the major laws of chastity or alcohol consumption or homosexuality (he’s usually pretty good at squashing the thoughts), and it isn’t as though he’s been cursing up a storm or completely shirking his duties as District Leader. 

No, he hasn’t done any of those things. And he’s planning on keeping it that way. He hasn’t turned his back on the faith _entirely_ , not the way Elder Price seems to have done. He just isn’t sure the exact details make a lot of sense to him anymore and he needs some time to sort it out. Besides, after all of this is over and Elder Price gets transferred, his life and his mission will surely go back to normal. He’s just taking a temporary moratorium, is all. A sabbatical. A way to deal with everything that’s happened in the unsettling limbo between soul-crushing torment and somewhat okay, and as long as he keeps on telling himself that, he thinks— _thinks_ —he should be in the clear.

“Hey, Elder,” Connor says to his companion the following evening as they are getting ready for bed. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

“Sure, Con—” Chris stops himself and shakes his head with a smile. “Darn, I keep doing that!” 

“Don’t worry about it, Elder,” Connor says, patting the spot next to him on the bed. 

“You seem to be doing better,” Elder Thomas observes, eyes glinting with pride as he takes a seat beside him. “Better than you’ve been since... well, these past few weeks.”

A wave of heat creeps up Connor’s neck. He hasn’t really considered it, but he supposes Chris is right. “Yeah, I guess I am feeling a bit better, now that you mention it.”

“You even smiled today,” Elder Thomas adds, bumping their shoulders together in that companionable way he does sometimes. “You should smile more often. It’s a good look on you.”

“I’ll... work on that for sure.” Connor looks shyly down to his lap. He doesn’t particularly want to think about _why_ he’s been smiling more often as of late. 

“So, what’s up?” His companion asks, bouncing a little on the bed. “You wanted to talk to me about something?”

“Yes,” Connor says, nervously. “I do. It’s, um—it’s about our companion assignments.” 

Elder Thomas looks surprised. “Oh?” 

“Well, it’s really about Elder Price,” he goes on, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “Don’t repeat a word of this to anyone, but he isn’t exactly doing so hot right now.”

“Oh, no.” Chris seems genuinely worried. “What happened?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss it, but let’s just say he’s going to need a _lot_ of extra support over the next few weeks. He’s already confided in me on the nature of this… _problem_ … and so I really think I’m the best person to help him through this difficult time.” 

“Oh,” Elder Thomas says, the sudden deflation of his tone making it clear he understands what Connor is trying to say. “Um, okay, I guess. But where does that leave me?”

“I would pair you up with Elder Cunningham and do an official companion swap through the Mission President’s office, but when I suggested the idea to him, he seemed very, um. Well, he said the villagers trust him and he doesn’t think bringing in another missionary at this juncture is a very good idea.” He feels a little swell of guilt in his chest, as letting Elder Cunningham run around the village on his own like he’s been doing, sans Elder Price, is just another rule he’s broken. “We’re supposed to perform the baptisms in a few weeks, so I don’t think it’ll last much longer, but for the time being I think it would be best for you to accompany Elder Michaels and Elder Church.” 

“But that’s a threesome!” 

“No,” Connor lifts a hand, “Don’t—don’t use that word.”

“You know what I mean,” Chris sighs. “We’re supposed to work in _pairs_ , remember?”

“Yes, well, this is a special circumstance.”

“Right,” Chris says, dryly. “Just like _Elder Cunningham_ is a ‘special circumstance’?” 

Connor looks down at his feet, feeling rather hot in the cheeks. He doesn't like being called out like this, especially not when he’s already flustered to begin with at having to lie. According to his mother, there are only three sins worse than bedding a member of the same sex and those are: lying, stealing and committing murder. And now he’s just told a lie. Straight to his companion’s face, no less. Just so he could spend some time evading his missionary duties with a _boy_. A handsome boy. An objectively handsome boy that he isn’t even supposed to be _thinking_ of as handsome. And if there really is a God and if the Church actually _does_ have it right, then Connor doesn’t even want to _think_ about what all of this might mean for his soul.

Then again, the Church lied to him when they told him he’d be safe here, that God would protect him from evil as long as they stuck to their duties and served the Lord. It was all so confusing. He couldn't tell the righteous from the liars or the liars from the righteous anymore. All he had was his instinct and his instinct is telling him that he needs this. Needs some time away from the Church to clear his head, to find some much-needed happiness to get through all of this confusion and pain. It isn’t as though they have access to therapy or a support system here. Their families are clear across the globe. Even the Mission President, useless as he is, is two days away by car. They are _alone_ out here. All they have is each other. And Connor thinks that _each other_ might be their only ticket to regaining some sense of normalcy, to move past all of this turmoil and find themselves again. And if that means telling a little white lie to his companion so he can do just that.. well, then that’s just what he needs to do. 

“You could get into deep trouble for letting Cunningham parade around the village by himself, you know,” Chris goes on. “I mean, what if he gets hurt? Or _mugged_? They’ll blame you, you know.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that, _Elder_ ,” Connor sighs through gritted teeth. “But we’re trying to save the district’s reputation here. Elder Cunningham is our only chance.” 

It isn’t a total lie. it isn’t a lie at all, really. Then why does it feel like one? 

“Look, I’m asking you to do this for me as a friend, alright?” Connor begs, putting aside the act in favor of genuine desperation. “ _Please_ do this for me.” He can feel his face soften as he pleads with his companion. “It’ll only be for the next few weeks, I swear. After that, everything will go back to normal, okay?”

Chris thinks on it for a moment before finally relenting with a sigh. “Fine. But if my _mother_ finds out about this…”

“It was my idea entirely and I coerced you into it,” Connor says, raising his hands in surrender. “You are completely blameless here, I promise.”

Chris nods. “Okay.” 

“Thanks,” he sighs in relief, forcing the excited smile he can feel pulling at his lips to remain at bay, “I owe you one.”

“Yeah, you do,” Chris says as he stands. “When all of this is over, I’d like to be paid in pop-tarts.”

“You got it.”

“The s’mores ones, if you can find them. But if not, then strawberry will do.”

“Consider it done.” 

Connor clicks off the lamp that sits between them and slides into bed, where he lays in a familiar state of both needing sleep and dreading it. He’s always suffered from nightmares, but they’ve only gotten worse since the _incident_. 

His eyelids eventually slide closed, despite his efforts to keep them open, but just as he’s about to succumb to the inevitable pull of sleep, a realization hits him and his eyes shoot back open. He sits up in bed, hand clutched to his heart, as the sudden epiphany threatens to engulf him.

He’s _free_. Free to do whatever he pleases, day after day, for the indefinite foreseeable future. His heart rate quickens in his chest from the mere thought of it. The very idea is so intoxicating and overwhelming that he stays up all night, tossing and turning in bed, wiggling his feet and gripping excitedly at the edge of his scratchy comforter. Too exhilarated by the prospect to sleep and too tired to do anything else. 

He's _free_. At least for the next few weeks, at least until the Mission President comes to meet the villagers and oversee the baptisms. Who knows what will happen a week after that or two weeks after that or three, but at least right now, in this moment, he _is_ free, and that just feels so fucking _good_. 

* * *

“Are you sure about this?” Connor asks the next morning, glancing around nervously as they approach the coffee bar. “What if someone sees us?”

“Then they see us.” Kevin shrugs and takes a seat on one of the wooden swivel stools. He pats the seat beside him and flashes his accomplice an inviting grin. 

Connor takes one more look around before cautiously sitting down beside him. 

He had seemed so excited earlier, Kevin thinks—albeit, a bit exhausted—and, honestly, quite thrilled over not having to go proselytizing with Elder Thomas, but he sure seems jumpy and anxious, now. 

“Relax,” Kevin says, placing a tentative hand to his shoulder. “It’s not like we’re committing a bank heist. It’s just a cup of coffee.”

“A cup of coffee we are _not_ supposed to be having,” Connor reminds him. “I could lose my position for this, you know.”

But before Kevin has a chance to reply, the woman working the stand comes over to them, looking rather dead in the eyes as she asks what they would like. 

Kevin clears his throat. This is it. There’s no turning back. 

“Hi, there,” he says in that uber-polite Mormon voice he’s perfected so well over the past few years. “We’ll have two cups—no, make that _four_ cups—of the strongest, blackest coffee you’re capable of making, please.” Connor raises a brow from the seat beside him. Kevin glances at him before adding, “Oh, and some milk and sugar, please. On the side.” The woman stares at them for a second before wordlessly turning away. Kevin turns to Connor and scoffs. “How _rude_ ,” he says, but Connor just glares at him. “What?”

“ _Four_ cups?” 

Kevin shrugs. “So?”

“ _So_ , we’ve never even had _one_ cup of coffee before and you order us _four_? And I’m not even going to go into how weird ‘strongest and blackest’ sounded, just promise me you’ll never say those words again.”

“Go big or go home.” Kevin beams and excitedly raps his knuckles on the bar. His entire body is tingling, already abuzz with excess energy, and he hasn’t even ingested a drop of caffeine. The anticipation of doing so, however; of openly defying the Church, his parents, has him practically squirming in his seat. If only his mother could see him now, she’d probably have a stroke. “It’ll get you nice and energized for your lesson with Nabulungi.”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Connor sighs as the woman sets down a tray of milk and sugar in front of them, along with four steaming cups of black coffee. “You know that, right?”

Kevin just grins in reply, a silent acknowledgment of his agreement, and blows into one of the cups to cool it down. He blows and blows until he thinks it might be _just_ cool enough to drink. 

“To sinning,” he cheers, raising his cup in a toast. Connor rolls his eyes.

He takes a tentative first sip, wincing a little at the unfamiliar taste. It isn’t _bad_ , per se. Just… _different_. Sort of bitter and slightly tangy. But the notes of defiance, along with the lingering aftertaste of noncompliance and overt disobedience, more than make up for all that. A few sips later and he thinks he might actually… _like_ it. 

Oh, _yes_ , he thinks as another sip lightly warms his esophagus. He _does_ like it. He had honestly expected to take a few small sips, send a big metaphorical _fuck you_ to the Church, and never touch the stuff again, but now that he’s had a taste of it and finds it isn’t half bad, he might actually finish the whole cup. Possibly even the second.

“Your turn,” he nods to Connor when he realizes the other boy is still just sitting there, holding the cup a few centimeters from his lips. 

His partner in crime makes a wrinkly face. “It smells weird.”

“It’s not that bad, I promise,” Kevin assures. “But if you’re really that worried, put some milk and sugar in it.”

Connor dumps in _way_ too much milk, followed by not one, not two, but _three_ packets of sugar. And when he finally dares to take a sip of the forbidden liquid and swallows fully, Kevin finds the look on his face to _not_ be entirely disgusted.

“Hey, you’re right!” Connor smiles as he takes in the taste. “This isn’t bad.” 

“Let me try yours.”

Kevin takes his cup and downs a long gulp, only to cringe as the flavor of hot milk assaults his mouth. _Yuck_. He is still getting used to the flavor of coffee, yes, but he’s always hated milk—unless it was of the chocolate variety—and this is basically just that. 

“That’s milk.” He makes a face, clicking his tongue as he sets the cup back down. “Really _sweet_ milk.”

“No, it's coffee.” 

“It’s coffee-flavored milk.”

Connor scoffs, seeming mildly offended. “Fine. Let me try yours, then, if it’s _so_ much better, Mister I-don’t-need-milk-in-my-coffee.”

He grabs Kevin’s cup and downs a big ‘ol sip, only to violently spew it out a moment later, spraying it not only all over the counter, but also all over Kevin. His formerly-spotless white shirt is dotted with light brown spots that may or may not ever come out, but Kevin doesn’t mind. In fact, he can’t even remember the last time he’s laughed this hard. It takes him a second to realize that Connor is laughing, too. That makes for the third time in the past two days. And even though his smile, his eyes, don’t look _quite_ as happy and carefree as they do in the photograph, it still counts for something. They are getting there, Kevin thinks, little by little. 

* * *

“Do you hear that?” Kevin asks as they stroll back to the center of the village. “That's Bon Jovi!” Connor turns to find him grinning, bobbing his head up and down to the distant beat of _You Give Love a Bad Name_ like the biggest dum dum on the planet. “I love Bon Jovi,” he says, making Connor snort.

“Of course you do.” 

Kevin turns to him with narrowed eyes. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he says, flashing him an innocent smile. “Just that I’m not surprised.”

Kevin pretends to be affronted, but the playful glint in his eyes lets Connor know it isn’t entirely genuine. “I’m not _that_ easy to read.”

“You’re _incredibly_ easy to read.” _Most of the time_ , Connor silently adds to himself. 

Kevin scoffs at the remark, but that twinkle in his eyes is still going strong and so Connor knows they are still just playing. He likes playing around with Kevin. It feels easy, almost as easy as it does with his little sister, Gracie. 

“So, what else do you know about me that I haven’t told you, yet?” Kevin challenges him as they continue to walk along. “If I’m _so_ easy to read.”

“Hmmmm…” Connor smiles and taps at his chin, trying to _really_ think about this one. He looks over at Kevin, meeting his gaze with a curious squint. “I feel like you’re the type of person who likes salt and vinegar chips, even though they’re literally the _worst_ flavor of potato chip to ever exist.” 

Kevin frowns.

“And I bet you were the kind of kid who put _ketchup_ on everything, you know? Like, it didn’t matter what it was: pizza, eggs, french toast—you smothered it with ketchup like one of those gross ketchup kids.”

Kevin raises an eyebrow. “I’ll give you the pizza and the eggs, but _French toast_? No. That’s just wrong.” 

“Still,” Connor smiles, and if he’s preening a little bit, then so be it, “two out of three ain’t bad.” 

“Three out of four,” Kevin corrects him, looking mildly sheepish. “You got me on the salt and vinegar chips, too.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Connor congratulates himself, “I _knew_ it.”

Kevin grins, baring his teeth in a way that shouldn’t be as beautiful as it is. “You’re very good at this game.”

“And _you_ are very basic, Kevin Price.”

His face wrinkles in a pout, as though that one may have actually hurt a little. 

“I’m _kidding_ ,” Connor laughs, and in a moment of forgetfulness, goes to take Kevin’s hand, much as he would with Chris or James or his siblings as a display of friendly, platonic affection. He has always been a chronic hand-holder, especially while teasing or messing around. He stops himself, however, with the realization that this isn’t Chris or James or anyone else, for that matter. This is _Kevin_ and his feelings for Kevin are… well, they’re complicated. 

He pulls his hand back immediately, hopefully before Kevin had a chance to see what he was about to do, and shamefully pulls it to his chest. He cups it tightly with his other hand, just in case it decides to go rogue again.

His heart is racing in his chest and he knows his cheeks are probably flushed with an ungodly level of embarrassment. He takes in a deep breath and tells himself that Kevin probably didn’t even notice what he was about to do. And even if he did, probably didn’t think anything of it. It’s quite common knowledge that Connor is the touchy-feely type, always placing a hand to his friends’ shoulders or linking arms, especially while laughing and goofing around; though, that habit of his has, admittedly, greatly diminished since the camp. 

Still, Connor is a known hand holder. And holding hands with Kevin, at least in the latter’s point of view, shouldn’t be all that different. Correction: it _isn’t_ any different because Connor _does not_ think of Kevin as anything more than a friend. A new friend, at that. A new friend he still doesn’t know very well, despite his guessing game prowess. A friend he’ll probably never get to know as well as he’d like to, as Kevin will likely be transferred to Orlando sometime next month.

“You okay?” Kevin breaks the silence as they enter the familiar clearing; a large semi-circle, framed by a smattering of huts. The question jolts Connor from his thoughts and he turns quickly to meet his eyes. “You got really quiet all of a sudden,” Kevin adds, the formerly playful twinkle in his eyes replaced by a glimmer of concern. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, of course. Sorry.” He shakes his head, realizing just how awkward the past few minutes must have been for Kevin while he was busy internalizing his weird hand-holding fakeout. “I was just… thinking.”

Kevin nods, shifting his gaze back to the rapidly-approaching row of huts. “About what?” 

“About…” he stretches the word out as long as he can, trying desperately to think of something, _anything_ , other than the truth. “About how your taste in music is truly _abysmal_ , Kevin Price,” he softens the barb with a warm smile, to let him know he’s only kidding. “We’re going to have to work on that.”

Kevin rolls his eyes and rebuts with some comment about how Bon Jovi is beloved by the masses, and how it isn’t possible for _so_ many people to be in the wrong. Connor cites several examples from history where the masses were most _certainly_ in the wrong, and it’s enough to dissolve most of the tension that had been emanating between them just moments before.

Another wave of uneasiness comes over him, however, as they slowly approach the Hatimbis’ hut. 

His eyes are dead level with the exterior wall that faces the clearing, the one he and Kevin had leaned against the night that everything changed.

He remembers the way Kevin held him, squeezing him tightly against his side with a grip that was both unwaveringly strong and surprisingly gentle, the freezing bombardment of the rain reducing their already-battered bodies to wet slabs of shivering ice. He remembers the feeling of Kevin’s hands on his waist, holding him up as he cried; how warm they felt against his skin, despite the iciness of the rain; the way the touch had brought him so much comfort and so much shame, at exactly the same time. 

He can still hear the sound of Kevin screaming, banging relentlessly on the door, crying and begging for someone to let them in, shouting that they were hurt and desperately needed help. He remembers his body being frozen in a kind of hysterical trance for most of that night; the way he was unable to catch his breath, even for just a moment, and how it felt nearly impossible to suppress the sobs that kept on lurching from his throat, one after the other, in an endless stream of raw panic. He remembers being unwilling to open his eyes, to look into Kevin’s, as the blanket of humiliation he felt pressing into him simply wouldn’t allow it. 

It feels weird, being back here. Being back here with _Kevin_.

Connor senses that Kevin feels it, too, and when their eyes meet, an understanding seems to pass between them; a silent acknowledgement that they both feel it, but that they aren’t going to talk about it.

He supposes that, in some ways, that’s exactly what they’ve been doing for the past three and a half weeks, despite the fact that it is with them, always, everywhere that they go. It doesn’t leave them alone, not even for a second, but as long as they don’t talk about it, it’s as though they get to pretend, at least on a surface level, that everything has gone back to normal; that maybe they didn’t even experience what they did at all, and _certainly_ not together. 

But being back here doesn’t allow for those kinds of falsities, and so they just lean back against the wall and wait out the achingly long five minutes for Nabulungi to return from her lesson with Elder Cunningham, in a silence that is both comfortable and uncomfortable. 

“Well, I guess I better go,” Kevin says when they spot her running toward them from a distance, her familiar teal dress blowing around in the wind. He digs his hands nervously into his pockets and meets Connor’s eyes. “I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Yeah.” He nods, forcing his lips into a weak smile. “See you at dinner.”

He watches Kevin make his way down the red dirt road, trying not to notice how the dim orange rays of the setting sun sift perfectly through his wavy brown hair, or the way he takes the time to look around at his surroundings as he walks, eyes darting between the huts and the villagers and the rolling green and orange landscape, hands sheathed deep into the pockets of his dress pants.

“Elder McKinley!” 

He turns his attention back to Nabulungi, who is now racing frantically toward him, the smile on her face as warm and radiant as the sun in the sky. 

She slows down when she reaches him, panting a little from all the running. “What are you doing here?” 

He returns her smile with a shy one of his own, as he’s honestly quite nervous. Maybe it’s because he isn’t used to asking other people for things, to _do_ things for him. Not to mention the general anxiety he feels about this whole quote-on-quote “rebellion” thing he and Kevin are apparently doing. 

“I, um,” he clears his throat and fidgets with his hands, “I wanted to tell you that I gave the whole flute.. lesson.. offer some more thought and, well... if you’re still willing to teach me, I’d love to learn.”

“Of course!” Her entire face lights up, as though genuinely enthused by the prospect. “I would love to teach you.”

“You would?” He asks, even though he knows he has no reason to be surprised. She nods, excitedly, and he can’t help but feel a little bit touched. “Great! So, um, just let me know when you’re free and we can make a—”

“I am free, now.” She grins and eagerly takes his hand. 

“Oh,” he trips over his feet as she pulls him toward the hut, “Okay.” 

He doesn’t expect to be hit with another wave of _feelings_ the moment he steps inside, but they rush through him, regardless, with or without his consent.

The warmth and comfort of this place is familiar, despite the fact that he had barely opened his eyes for much of his time here. His gaze drifts to the stove, of which a large, empty pot sits in the center. The same pot Mafala had used to brew them Ugandan ginger tea to try and calm their nerves—the tea Kevin helped him to drink when he was too shaken to do it himself. 

He sinks down onto the bench as Nabulungi goes to fetch her flute. The same bench he and Kevin had sat upon for hours that night, hands fastened between them like iron vises, only letting go long enough for Mafala to tend to Kevin’s wounds. 

Ironic, he thinks, that he had just panicked about almost taking Kevin’s hand as they walked, when it had been his lifeline not more than a few weeks ago.

He can’t see it, but he knows the hammock is just behind him, where he had cried himself to sleep; where Kevin had once again never let go of his hand, not until sleep eventually took him and gravity forced them to part. And when Connor began to once again break down, shuddering uncontrollably against the rough material of the hammock, Kevin had made the choice to lay down beside him, to hold him, all night long. And now Connor won’t even let them sleep in the same room together.

A fresh wave of shame rolls through him at the reminder that this man, this person he’s been spending all of this time with, has seen him in a state that nobody else has ever seen him in. It makes for a kind of naked openness he feels whenever they are together, as though no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t bring himself to put up all of his usual walls. Not around Kevin, as Kevin has already seen him with all of them lowered. He has seen Connor naked, both inside and out. He thinks it’s why he feels so guarded and yet so relaxed whenever they are together, why everything with Kevin feels simultaneously so open and yet so closed.

He wants more than anything to forget that night, to forget the shame and the humiliation and the fear and just _move on_ with his life, but the memories just keep flooding back to him every chance they get. A relentless river with a broken dam. He’s been trying not to think about it, trying his best to turn it off, like he’s been taught to do; trying to get to know Kevin outside the context of… _this_ , but it all just feels so impossible. Part of him feels like maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he should have never come back here. The memories are still too fresh.

But then Nabulungi is taking a seat beside him with that soft smile of hers, asking him how he’s doing as she cleans the mouthpiece of her wooden flute, and his nerves begin to slowly unfrazzle. She just exudes such a calming peace and warmth about her that despite the barrage of distressing memories, he finds himself hard-pressed to do anything but relax and watch on as she rhythmically cleans her instrument. 

“What’s it called again?” He asks as she hands him the wooden flute. 

“An _endere_.” 

“ _Endere_ ,” he repeats the name of the instrument, pronounced _an-day-ray_. “It’s very pretty,” he notes as he turns it over in his hands. The wood is sleek to the touch and the color, a beautiful deep mahogany. He looks up and meets her eyes. “Thank you, again. For offering to teach me and all.”

“You do not have to thank me.” She smiles, grabbing what looks like an old music book from a box behind her. They are quiet for a moment as she flips through it, seeming to be looking for a certain page. 

He clears his throat. “Could you, um—could you do me a favor and maybe… _not_ mention anything about this to Elder Cunningham?” He feels a bit bad about dragging this poor girl into his newly-formed web of lies, but it’s a precaution he needs to take. “Strictly speaking, I’m not exactly supposed to _be_ here.”

She looks confused. “Why not?” 

“Well, the Church has, um.. rules and stuff about how we’re supposed to spend our time, and getting flute lessons from girls alone in their huts isn’t exactly on the approved activity list.” He pauses a moment, watching as lines of worry etch her otherwise flawless face. “So, could we just… keep this between us? If you don’t mind. Oh, and Elder Price. He’s in on it, too. He’s sort of the one who encouraged me to do it, so.” He smiles, a brief wave of warmth washing over his cheeks. “But with anybody else, could you just… _not_ mention it? Please.”

“As you say in America: my lips are sealed,” she says, fake-zipping her mouth with her hand. 

“Thank you,” he lets out a deep sigh, relieved that they’ve gotten that unpleasantness out of the way. He looks down at the instrument and tries to get his fingers into position. “So, am I even holding this thing right or—?”

“Almost,” she says, the worry lines on her face melting into a warm smile. “Your thumb needs to be on _this_ hole,” she gently guides his finger to position, “and your pinky should be _here_.” She moves it into place, then sits back and beams. “Perfect.” 

* * *

“What is all this?” Kevin asks, holding the door open for Connor as he makes his way into the toolshed. 

“Your education,” he says matter-of-factly, sounding quite out of breath from pulling the… _wheelbarrow_? 

Kevin blinks. It’s early in the morning and he hasn’t quite woken up just yet. Maybe he’s seeing things. 

No, no, it is most definitely a wheelbarrow. He’s pulling a goddamned _wheelbarrow_. 

He watches Connor sift through the contents contained therein and pull out what looks to be a dusty pack of batteries, followed by a CD player that honestly looks ancient as all heck. 

Kevin’s eyes widen as he peers into the wheelbarrow, which appears to be filled to the brim with various illicit materials: secular books, games and CDs that are most certainly _not_ mission-approved.

“I thought we weren’t allowed to bring books with us?” He asks, picking one off the pile and turning it over in his hands. His eyes shift back to Connor, who has taken a seat on the floor with the CD player and batteries. He smirks. “Or _music_ , for that matter.” 

Connor looks up and gives him a cheeky smile. “Yes, well, being the District Leader has its advantages.” 

Kevin huffs out a laugh and looks back down at the items. There are a number of novels, as well as several easily recognizable games such as chess and Scrabble, but the CDs are _definitely_ the dominant type of contraband Connor has chosen to sneak in with him. 

It becomes abundantly clear as he examines the items that Connor’s taste in music is very… _eclectic_ , to say the least, with genres ranging from Broadway musicals to punk to reggae to classical to R&B. There are also a bunch of indie bands he’s never heard of and a _lot_ of old people in black and white photographs that look to be from… well, _way_ before his time, that’s for sure. There are a few artists he does recognize, such as Adele and Beyoncé and Ed Sheeran. And of course he knows who _Mozart_ is. Duh. But many of them are totally unfamiliar. 

“Where did you even _keep_ all this stuff?” Kevin asks, pulling another book from the pile and inspecting the cover. “I’ve been in your room,” he says without thinking, “it’s as bare as a barrack.”

Connor whips his head up, the entirety of his face slowly creasing into a frown. “When have you been in my _room_?”

Kevin can feel any remaining cheekiness promptly draining from his face. 

“Oh, um.” He swallows hard and sets the book back down. “The day we got back. From Mafala’s.” He scratches nervously at his head. “You were really upset and I noticed you didn’t bring any clothes into the bathroom with you, so I just—”

“That was you?” The question comes out as a soft gasp, the batteries and speaker in his lap seemingly forgotten. His wide blue eyes are now focused solely on Kevin.

“Yeah,” his voice cracks at the admission. “But I wasn’t snooping or anything, I swear. I just went in there to get you some clothes.”

“Why?”

Kevin’s jaw drops slightly. He hadn’t expected to ever have to explain himself on this. “Oh. I, um. I just didn’t want you to have to walk out in just a towel after… you know.” His heart pounds wildly in his chest. He really hates any time he has to actually _say_ it. “And certainly not in my bloodied _shirt_.” He lets out a small laugh, but Connor doesn’t look amused. “Sorry,” he shakes his head, sobering his laugh to a more serious tone, “I know I shouldn’t’ve gone in your room like that without your permission, but I was just trying to do a nice thing.”

Connor gazes at him for a long moment before looking back down and resuming whatever he was doing with the CD player. 

“In the floorboards,” he answers Kevin’s earlier question, pausing a beat before looking back up. “I kept them in the floorboards. There’s a few loose ones in the office.”

Kevin’s eyes widen. “That’s…”

“Horrible, I know,” Connor sighs. “If the Mission President ever found out, I’d be done for.”

“I was gonna say genius, actually,” Kevin says, hand drifting over the large mound of contraband. “Okay, but are you _seriously_ telling me you couldn’t go two years without…” he picks a random CD off the top and holds it up, “ _The Greatest Hits of Barry Manilow_?” 

Wow, Kevin thinks as he looks down at the album. And Connor had the nerve to call _his_ taste in music abominable. He laughs when Connor snatches it from his hands and insists _it’s a classic_.

“Okay, wait,” Kevin goes on as he digs deeper into the pile, “You have at _least_ five or six Bruce Springsteen albums in here.” 

“So?” 

“So, how is that any different from Bon Jovi?”

Connor sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Alright, I’m just gonna... pretend you didn’t say that.”

“And why so many _CDs_?” Kevin eggs him on further, the smile on his face stretching in tandem with the reddening of Connor’s cheeks. “I haven’t used a CD since I was twelve.”

“They inspect our phones,” Connor says, snatching another disc from his hands, “and some of the songs have words like _Hell_ and _damn_ in them.”

Kevin’s smile turns up further. “I doubt they would’ve actually _listened_ to them.”

“You never know,” Connor points a finger, “The zone leader is very tricky and I couldn’t take any chances.” 

Kevin nods and continues sifting through the pile. 

“Most of my music is on my phone,” Connor goes on, “but I figured a phone could get lost or stolen and then I would be without any music for two whole _years_.” He shudders. "Unless you count the very few hymnal CDs the Church provides and I just want to get one thing straight right now: I most certainly do _not_.”

“Music is really important to you, huh?” Kevin asks, turning another album over in his hand. The question seems to take Connor by surprise, as his eyes go slightly wider and his lips begin to part. “Sorry,” Kevin says, worried that perhaps he had struck a nerve. “I just meant, the, um. The flute and now the CDs. It just seems like music is a big part of your life.”

Connor holds his gaze for a moment before looking down and Kevin doesn’t miss the blush that crawls up his neck. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Is that what you want to do?” Kevin ventures further, lazily poking through the contents of the wheelbarrow. “Be a musician?” 

His words seem to once again take Connor by surprise and Kevin wonders if anyone else has ever bothered to ask him that question. At least, without expecting any of the standard bullshit answers like doctor or lawyer or some other standard LDS-parent-approved profession.

Connor shrugs, keeping his eyes trained on the CD in his hand. “Sort of.” He keeps his eyes lowered, looking increasingly self-conscious. He turns to Kevin, pausing a moment as if trying to decide whether or not to tell him the truth. “I know it’s silly and probably won’t ever happen because, let’s face it, I’m just some nobody from Utah,” he goes on, “but I, um… I’ve always pictured myself being on Broadway or something like that.” 

The admittance seems to embarrass him, but Kevin is fascinated. “Like an actor?”

“Yeah,” he says with the slightest hint of a smile before going back and busying himself with the old CD player. “A musical actor. An actor who sings and dances in Broadway musicals.” His smile fades after a moment and when he looks back up, Kevin can see a twinge of regret shining in his eyes. “Sorry,” he shakes his head with a shy laugh, “You must think I’m so silly.”

“No,” Kevin says, sincerely, and when Connor doesn’t look back up right away, he reaches out and places a palm atop his hand. “I don’t think you’re silly at all.”

Connor looks up at the touch and meets Kevin’s eyes. It lasts longer than it should and pretty soon Connor is yanking his hand away and turning back down to the items.

“Now, about your education,” he clears his throat and pulls out one of the books. “I think this would be a good place to start. I want you to read it tomorrow and be ready to discuss it on Thursday.”

“Um.” Kevin takes the book and flips through the… Jesus Christ, _500 pages_. He looks back up at Connor and scoffs. “Are you nuts? I can’t read this in one day.”

“Sure, you can.” Connor smirks. “Last I heard, you don’t do anything all day except drink coffee and sit in a toolshed. You have all the time in the world.” He tosses him a bookmark, which he catches in the air. “Thursday,” he points a finger in his face, “be ready to discuss.”

Kevin raises a brow and looks back down at the book. “Yes, sir.”

Connor smiles and presses _play_ on the old, beat-up CD player and the sound of melodic orchestral music quickly fills the shed. It sounds old and moody and the rhythm is kind of like a waltz. But it’s beautiful and transportive and Kevin finds himself hard-pressed not to take Connor’s hand and start spinning him around as though they were in some glamorous 1920s-style ballroom instead of cooped up inside a dirty old shed.

He doesn’t, of course. That would be wildly inappropriate, not to mention downright bizarre. But he does… _think_ about it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I want to clarify that I don't actually hate any of the stuff Connor pokes fun at Kevin for liking, I just headcanon him as liking to tease people when he feels comfortable with them XD No offense was intended toward Bon Jovi fans or salt and vinegar chip lovers. Also he isn't really that snobby, he just likes to tease and use humor as a way to deflect his emotions. 
> 
> This chapter was originally part of a much larger chapter, the rest of which will now be posted as Chapter 6. It was really hard for me to split them up because I’m crazy like that, but I just felt like I had to for better readability (even this chapter alone was pretty long, honestly). The good news is that the next chapter should be up shortly as it’s already been written! :) 
> 
> Thank you again for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! <3 As always, comments and kudos are so so SO appreciated!!


	6. Jump

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this?! An update in under two weeks?! That never happens!! I normally take way (way) longer to update and so if you haven't read Chapter 5 yet, I recommend you go back and read that one first before diving into this one. For those of you who are caught up: I sincerely hope you enjoy! <3
> 
> Also a reminder that the long dash between scenes means a POV switch and the tiny dash means same POV.

In what Connor has come to refer to as his ‘new normal’, he has both good days and bad days.

Today is one of the bad days and although he pretends to go out proselytizing with Elder Price, as to not arouse suspicion with the other Elders, he just hides out in the bathroom and waits for everyone else to leave. He knows Kevin is waiting for him, but there are days when he just can’t bring himself to get dressed and walk the quarter mile to the toolshed. Sometimes he doesn’t feel like talking, even if it is with Kevin, and sometimes it’s the fear that stops him. Fear of what, he honestly has no idea. Not exactly. All he knows is that every nerve in his body will suddenly be standing at attention and it feels as though there is a real, unseen danger lurking just around the corner. And whenever he feels like _that_ , he finds the only thing he can do is lay down in his bed and take in a series of slow, deep breaths, for as long as he needs to, until he begins to calm down.

Fortunately, whenever Connor does decide to stay in and forgo his daily toolshed hangout with Kevin, the latter never makes a big deal out of it. Sometimes he’ll ask a tentative “how are you doing?” or “are you alright?” later on at dinner, but he never gets pushy or angry about it. He just kind of lets Connor be, even when he’s being avoidant or quiet or testy. He isn’t sure how Kevin knows to do this, as the boy seems rather socially inept and has mentioned on several occasions that he’s never really had any close friends. But regardless of how he knows to do it, Connor is just grateful that he does. 

He lays back down in his bed on this particular afternoon and tries his best to fall back to sleep. The attempt is futile, however, as no matter how hard he tries, his mind just won’t turn off. He’s never been much of a napper and has a difficult enough time falling asleep at night when it's dark and quiet. But the alternative option is getting out of bed and putting on clothes and leaving the house and he just isn’t up for any of that today. At least, he doesn’t _think_ he is. 

It’s hard for him to tell what would be best for him, anymore, especially whenever he gets so inexplicably down like this. Sometimes cleaning helps, if no one else is home; washing and scrubbing every last inch of the house until he eventually passes out from overexertion. It’s a bit masochistic, yes, but at least he feels as though he’s _done_ something other than wallowing in his bed. Sometimes he’ll take a shower or read a book and then he’ll feel somewhat human, again, but those occurrences are few and far between whenever he feels like _this_. 

He isn’t even sure why he feels like this at all. Their ordeal only lasted a few minutes, at most. It’s been over for weeks. And as long as they don’t bother the General again, he doesn’t think he’ll come after them a second time. Rumor has it he’s moved on to a neighboring village. People are acting like he’s gone for good, but Connor knows he’s still out there, somewhere, still just as insane and cruel and unpredictable as he was the last time they saw him. But as long as he sticks close to the Church’s property and close to his Elders and close to Kevin, he doesn’t think he’ll ever have to deal with that again. 

He knows this and yet he still feels this inexplicable blanket of sadness and malaise and all-encompassing fear, slowly suffocating him like a pair of callous hands squeezing at his neck. It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt before in his life and every day finds him drifting further and further away from everything he’s ever known. He’s drifted before, yes—a tiny bit here and there—but this is different. This is the furthest he’s ever felt from the Church, from the cushion of safety and comfort it’s always provided him before.

 _Before_. He really misses _before_. It wasn’t perfect. Far from it, actually. But at least it was familiar.

He rolls over in bed and lets his eyes drift past the glass of the window and out to the trees. It is a _beautiful_ day. Rays of sunlight shine between each leaf on every tree, stopping only when they reach the ground, making the reddish orange dirt look even brighter and warmer than usual. The greens on the trees are lush and vibrant with life and the sound of the wind rustling them gently is almost enough to bring Connor to the precipice of peace. It’s a beautiful day. The kind of day he typically loves spending outside. He doesn't know why some days he feels hopeful, like he’s finally been able to put all of this behind him and is ready to make a fresh start, and then other days he feels like... _this._ All he knows is that he does, and there doesn’t seem to be anything he can do about it. 

-

The next day isn’t any better and despite the way Kevin gently pulls him aside after dinner and quietly asks him if he’s alright, Connor tells him he’s just fine and will see him the following morning for their illicit daily hangout. 

He tries to do just that, but finds he can’t. He didn’t get any sleep the night before, there are bags under his eyes the size of Texas, and he can barely keep them open. He knows Kevin won’t mind if he dozes off in the toolshed. He _knows_ that. But still, he doesn’t go. Just lays back down in bed and pulls the covers up to his chin and gazes out the window. It’s an equally beautiful day as yesterday. Most days are, here, he’s noticed over these past few months. 

He’s fallen into a state of being not quite awake, but not quite asleep, either, when he hears a soft knock at the door. He’s jolted back to reality and jumps out of bed, startled. Another knock, and then—

“Connor?” He hears Kevin’s voice from the other side of the door. It’s quiet and ridiculously gentle as usual and Connor’s heart palpitates in his chest. “You don’t have to come out. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” 

Connor swallows something thick and makes his way towards the door. He doesn’t like seeing Kevin or talking to Kevin whenever he feels like _this_ —unpredictably emotional, like he might just break out crying or snap angrily or do Lord knows what. 

He never used to be this way. He used to have such tight control over his emotions. But on days like this, he knows all bets are off. And he doesn't particularly want anybody else to see that. 

He opens the door, anyway, because it’s Kevin and he’s grown to trust Kevin for reasons he’s still trying to figure out. He knows he must look like a mess. He hasn’t showered in at least three days and hasn’t slept in even longer. And judging by the worried look in Kevin’s eyes, the way his brow knits together as he takes in Connor’s appearance, he’s quite certain he looks like the personification of shit. 

“Hey,” Kevin greets him softly, his tone laced with obvious concern. He takes a step forward and Connor takes one back. “I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

“I’m fine,” Connor assures him, but his voice defies his words by coming out all hoarse and broken up. Goddamn _emotions_. The sad, worried look in Kevin’s eyes only serves to form a lump of guilt in his throat. “I’m sorry I haven’t been—”

“Don’t be,” Kevin gently insists and then before Connor can stop it, a lone finger is being pressed against his lips. They instantaneously part under the touch and, once again, every nerve in Connor’s body is suddenly standing at attention, only now for a very different reason. 

It’s the closest they’ve come, physically, since waking up together in the Hatimbis’ hut, as aside from the occasional linkage of hands that Connor never allows to last for more than a second, they’ve been keeping a fairly good—and purposeful—distance from one another in the shed. 

Admittedly, there have been times when Connor has felt the inexplicable urge to just reach out and _touch_ him, to take Kevin’s hand and _squeeze_ it as tight as he can, to lightly brush his shoulder or graze his arm or just do _something_ whenever this paradox of a man says something brilliantly stupid or stupidly brilliant. 

He never acts on his thoughts, however, as that would only complicate matters further. And Connor’s life is already complicated enough as it is. He doesn’t need to add the guilt over breaking a mortal sin into this web of confusion and pain.

“Sorry,” Kevin stammers and swiftly retracts his finger. He clears his throat in that way he does whenever he gets uncomfortable or realizes he just did something objectively stupid. In this case, both. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay, that’s all.”

Connor nods, allowing his mouth to form a weak smile. He knows quite well that Kevin has the best of intentions, that he’s only trying to help. Still, he instinctively crosses his arms over his chest and averts his gaze to the floor. 

Things haven’t felt this awkward with Kevin in weeks. He doesn’t know if it’s due to the fact that this boy is in his _bedroom_ or because he’s seeing him at his absolute worst. Or perhaps it’s simply the slight sting of unwanted electricity he felt just seconds before; the one that shot down his spine the moment the tip of Kevin’s finger came into blissful contact with his lips. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Kevin cautiously prods, seeming to understand how carefully he needs to tread, and Connor doesn’t even have to ask what he means by _it_. 

“No.” Connor hugs himself tighter and shakes his head. “Not really.” 

An uncomfortable silence settles over the room, only broken when Connor notices the Scrabble and chess boxes wedged between Kevin’s arm and his side.

He looks back up. “You brought games?”

“Oh, yeah.” Kevin glances down at the boxes as though he’d forgotten all about them. He turns back to Connor and shrugs, offering him a sad smile. “Just in case you felt like playing.”

Connor keeps his eyes locked with Kevin’s as he nods, feeling a _very_ annoying swell of tears beginning to form in his eyes. This whole traumatic event thing seems to have turned his normally under control emotions into a faucet that won’t stop leaking. It’s like he can’t even _try_ to keep them inside, anymore. He never knows when he’s going to feel the urge to yell or cry or _punch_ something. It’s enough to make him want to hole up inside his room forever. 

“But I can—I can just go.” Kevin’s voice fills the room with that signature _I-don’t-know-what-the-heck-I’m-doing_ stutter of his. “If that’s what you want.” It’s nervous and innocent and sweet and, once again, Connor can’t help the way his lips curl slightly upward.

He realizes, then, that he doesn’t want Kevin to go. 

“No.”

He catches Kevin’s shoulder just as he’s about to walk away. He spins back around, those big, brown eyes of his even wider than before. 

“You can stay,” Connor assures him through a sniffle, but Kevin just continues to stand there, still seeming uncertain about what he should do. “I _want_ you to stay,” he clarifies, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He uses all the strength he has to muster up a smile and play-slaps Kevin on the arm. “Jeez, do you have to make me _say_ it?”

A visible wave of relief washes over Kevin’s face at the words and Connor moves out of the way, gesturing for him to make his way into the room. He does so hesitantly, fidgeting with the board games in his arms as he takes a look around. 

Connor kind of likes the way Kevin gets all nervous and weird whenever he doesn’t know what to do. It makes him feel oddly safe, despite the fact that he knows he’s never _really_ safe, not as long as there are people like the General out there. But he knows that Kevin would never hurt him. Someone as awkward and anxious and careful as Kevin could never hurt anyone. Connor still doesn’t know what got into him at the camp, how this same bumbling ball of nerves actually had the audacity to elbow that guard in the gut and grab his _gun_. And then have the strength and courage to get them safely home relatively unscathed. 

However he managed it, Connor is just grateful that he did. So grateful that he’s willing to give up his last thread of happiness by letting Kevin go off and live his Disney dreams in Orlando. The Mission President is set to arrive in just a week and a half, now. Connor will be asking him, then. And until that time comes, he needs to just... appreciate the fact that this boy—this silly, handsome, paradox of a boy—wants to spend any amount of time with him; has offered to help him get through what would have otherwise been an impossible past few weeks.

“Is this your sister?” Kevin asks, gently lifting the heart-framed photograph off the dresser and running a finger over it. 

“Oh, yeah.” Connor smiles and makes his way over to him. “That’s my little sister, Gracie. She’s fifteen now and _very_ interested in boys.” He manages a weak laugh, absentmindedly leaning into Kevin’s side as he looks down at the picture. “She’s been driving my parents bonkers ever since she entered high school.”

“You must love her a lot.” Kevin smiles as he thumbs over the photograph. 

Connor nods, a fresh sting of tears burning at his eyes. “Yeah, I do.” 

He gently takes the frame from Kevin’s hand and sets it back down on the dresser. He tries to shake off the mixture of _feelings_ steadily growing in his belly, surging up into his throat, but it isn’t really working. 

“How old are your siblings?” He chokes out as he makes his way over to the bed, deliberately shielding his eyes from Kevin’s line of sight. 

“Jack just turned sixteen,” Kevin replies with a hint of pride in his voice, “and Clara is eleven.” 

Connor nods, sinking down onto the bed and lowering his gaze to the floor. He doesn’t really know what to say, now that Kevin is _here_. His emotions are spilling out all over the place and the elephant in the room just keeps on getting bigger and bigger.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna talk about it?” Kevin ventures once again from a few feet behind him. “It might make you feel better.”

Connor shakes his head and wipes the wetness from his eyes. “No.” He blows out a hard breath and keeps on shaking his head. “It’s stupid,” he whispers through a tearful laugh.

“I’m sure it isn’t,” Kevin says, still seeming to tread rather carefully. A few seconds go by and Connor doesn’t reply, just keeps his eyes trained on the floor. “You can tell me,” he goes on, reaching out to Connor with a hand that never actually touches him, just hovers near his arm. “I won’t think it’s stupid. I promise.”

Connor takes in another sniffle and blinks back the tears lingering in his eyes. He doesn’t want Kevin to see him like this, with tears rolling down his cheeks and sniffles wracking his nose, though he supposes it’s nothing Kevin hasn’t seen before. The thought fills him with shame. He doesn’t like appearing out of control or weak or needing help. But the problem is that Kevin’s voice is very gentle and caring and it makes it nearly impossible for him to resist his offer.

“I don’t even know how to describe it,” he starts through a sad laugh, his normally-confident voice shaky and broken from trying to push the tears down. He closes his eyes and sighs, not even sure how to explain any of this. “I’ve always been an anxious person, but this is… this is different.” He swallows hard and tries to really think about it for a moment, to find the right words to explain all of this. “It’s like I just keep getting overwhelmed with this… _fear_. This sudden, demobilizing fear that just… takes over my entire body. And it’s like no matter how hard I try, there isn’t anything I can do about it.” He expels a harsh breath and closes his eyes. ”But it’s ridiculous because I know, logically, that everything is fine.” 

“Fear of what?” He hears Kevin ask, softly, from about a foot or so away, and there isn’t any hint of condescension or judgement in his tone.

“I don’t even know,” Connor admits through another sad laugh. He blinks his eyes back open and his cloudy, unfocused gaze lands on the opposite wall, next to Elder Thomas’s bed. “That it could happen, again, I guess. That maybe this was only the beginning and something much worse is waiting for me just around the corner.” 

He lets out a sigh and wills himself to turn back to Kevin, whose eyes just look so profoundly _sad_. He hates making Kevin’s eyes look like that. It’s been obvious from day one that the boy feels an undue amount of guilt over what happened. He doesn’t usually say it, not out loud, but the words are always written in his eyes, in the lines of his face, no matter how many times Connor tells him it wasn’t his fault. 

“I know the General probably won’t come after us again,” Connor continues. “Word on the street is that no one’s seen him in weeks.” He exhales a deep breath and scoots back to the top of the bed, where he leans back against the headboard and crosses his legs. “I try to tell myself that everything is alright, that I’m safe here, but it’s hard.” 

Kevin nods in understanding, but doesn’t say anything in response. The glimmer of sadness in his eyes speaks volumes, however, sending another rush of guilt through Connor’s body. 

He clears his throat and pats the spot in front of him on the bed, silently beckoning Kevin to take a seat across from him. Kevin’s eyes move to the spot and he hesitantly makes his way over, slowly lowering himself down onto the bed and leaning back against the wall next to the window. 

“Scrabble or chess?” Kevin asks, carefully setting the games down between them. 

“Scrabble,” Connor replies in a tone that says _do you even have to ask?_

They set up the board and play two games in a row. Kevin wins one, Connor wins the other. Connor thinks he would have won both if he wasn’t running on three or more days of poor to nonexistent sleep. 

“Do you think you might feel up to doing something tomorrow?” Kevin asks. 

They are on their third round of Scrabble, now, and Connor is winning, though not by much. His laser-focus concentration is broken by the question and he looks up in surprise.

“That wasn’t meant to pressure you or anything,” Kevin is quick to clarify. “I just… have an idea.”

“An idea?”

“Yeah.” Kevin grins. “An idea.”

“I’m intrigued,” Connor says, coyly, as he places down the last letter in _banquet_. And a triple word score, no less. “I have my lesson with Nabulungi at eleven, but I should be done by noon.” 

“Perfect,” Kevin says as he studies the board. “I would eat a light breakfast,” he goes on, stringing several letters together to form the word _timber_ , “and be sure to wear your best pair of running shoes.” He says it as though everyone has a pair of those lying around.

Connor makes a face. “Running shoes?” 

“Yeah.”

“What for?” He asks, hoping they will be for anything _but_ running.

“Uh uh,” Kevin wags a finger in his face, “no hints.”

Connor’s lips stretch into a smile and he finds himself gazing at Kevin as he stares down at the board. Never in his wildest dreams did he think that _Kevin Price_ , of all people, would end up being the only beacon of light in what have otherwise been the darkest days of his life, and yet. 

-

Forcing himself to get dressed and leave the house the following morning, he goes to his third flute lesson with Nabulungi, where she tells him she thinks he’s ready to move on from fingering and scales to playing an actual _song_. She pulls out a thin book titled _Music for Beginners_ , then reaches behind her and sifts through another box.

“We also have _big_ music book,” she beams, pulling out a large, tattered songbook that looks as though it’s seen better days, and hands it to Connor. “I found it at the market a few weeks ago.” 

“I thought you weren’t supposed to go to the market?” Connor smirks, opening the cover and eagerly perusing the song selection. “Oh, wow,” he says as he scans the list. “There’s actually some good stuff in here.”

“Yes. Baba loves it when I play ‘Yesterday’ by the Beatles.” She laughs.

The mental picture of Nabulungi playing music for her father makes him smile. 

“Yeah, well, he has better taste than Kevin, I’ll give him that,” Connor snorts inwardly as he flips through the pages. “He thinks music starts with Bon Jovi and ends with Justin Beiber.”

“But you like him, don't you?” She asks, as though it were as natural a question as _how are you?_ or _want some water?_

He looks up, surprised. He doesn’t know whether she means _like_ in the innocuous, friendship-type like or if she means… something else entirely. 

He knows that homosexuality is not exactly openly practiced here, as apparently you can get arrested for it. That’s what they were told at the MTC, anyway. And, besides, Nabulungi should know from her lessons with Elder Cunningham that Latter-Day Saints aren’t supposed to practice it, either, and so he’s certain she does not mean ‘like’ as in _that_ sort of like.

“I can tell,” she says, that soft, melodic voice of hers absent of judgement. “In your eyes. They smile when you speak of him.”

Or... maybe she does. 

His mouth opens and closes a few times, as he has absolutely no idea how to respond to that. Do his eyes _smile_ when he speaks of him? He doesn’t know, as he’s never actually _seen_ his own eyes when he’s spoken of him, but Nabulungi seems incapable of lying and so he supposes they must. 

He immediately shakes it off. 

“No,” he lets out a nervous laugh. “They do not _smile_ when I speak of him.” 

Nabulungi tilts her head to the side and bumps their shoulders together, silently letting him know she doesn’t believe him.

“First of all, he’s a _boy_ ,” Connor retorts, still shocked over the fact that he is even _having_ this conversation, “and I don’t have those types of feelings for… for boys.“ 

He tries to recite the same spiel he’s been telling himself since he was nine years old, but he just ends up fumbling over the words. It’s as though her expressive, sparkling eyes can see right through him and he knows there’s no use in lying. She’ll be able to tell.

“He likes _Bon Jovi_ ,” Connor rebuts, instead, as though that should answer _that_. He looks back down to the flute and tries to put all of this out of his mind, but apparently Nabulungi has other ideas.

“You should tell him,” she says. 

He looks back up. “Tell him what?”

“That you like him.” 

“Okay, _no_ ,” he laughs as though the idea is utterly ridiculous. “I do not _like_ him. I mean, I like him as a person, and as a friend, but I don’t _like him_ like him.” 

Nabulungi raises an eyebrow, silently calling him on his bluff. 

“I _don’t_ ,” he repeats, more defensively this time, but his lies have always been ridiculously transparent. A blush so hot he can feel burns at his cheeks and he briefly shifts his gaze down to his lap. “Look, can we just—get back to the lesson?” 

“Of course,” she says, though it’s obvious by the sadness in her tone that she doesn’t quite understand his reluctance. She quietly flips through the beginner’s book, only setting it down when she finds what she is looking for. “Is it not permitted in your culture?” She asks cautiously, seeming aware that she had plucked at some kind of nerve. “For two boys to… _like_ each other?” 

Pausing her movements, she turns and meets Connor’s eyes. 

“In my culture, it is not permitted,” she continues. “People do it, anyway, but they have to be _very_ careful.” The words make Connor’s chest feel all tight and funny, even though he was already privy to that particular bit of information. “I thought your culture was more… _accepting_.”

“Oh, um.” He breaks eye contact with Nabulungi and clears his throat. “Well, if you mean _American_ culture, it’s… permitted, yes. Even accepted, most places. But we’re _Mormon_ and in _our_ faith, it’s… well, it’s not.” He forces out a fake little laugh. “I mean, unless you want to _leave_ the Church.” He looks back up and meets her eyes. “Which, some people do.”

Nabulungi studies him for a moment, her face wrinkled in apparent confusion and what almost seems like _disappointment_.

“I’m sorry, hasn’t Elder Cunningham been teaching you?” He asks, feeling slightly confused by her reaction. “About our faith?” 

“Yes...” She nods, slowly. “But he has never mentioned anything about... _that_.”

Connor creases his brow, keeping his eyes locked with Nabulungi’s. “Huh.” He pauses a moment, then shrugs it off. “Well, I’m sure he’ll get to it eventually.” 

He expects her to perk right back up after this, but she still looks concerned and rather sad. He looks back down and fiddles with the flute. 

“So, do you think I’m ready for the Beatles or what?” He tries to smile. 

“Uhhh, not quite,” she laughs. “I think… _this_ one is more our speed.” 

_Hot Cross Buns_. Well, okay. 

-

He and Kevin would have normally whiled away the rest of the afternoon in the toolshed, or perhaps hit the café for more illicit coffee, but apparently Kevin has other ideas for them today. He instructed Connor to wear his best pair of sneakers and to be prepared to walk quite a bit, but that was all the information he would give him. 

Connor has learned a great deal about Kevin Price over the past few weeks, and yet he’s no less of an enigma to him, now, than he was before. He’s capable of being both silly and serious, obnoxiously outgoing and painfully shy. He can be downright fake, at times, but there are other times when Connor thinks he’s never met anyone so raw and honest. He isn’t exactly what you’d call ‘cultured’ and his taste in music leaves something to be desired, but he is also gentler and more respectful than any boy Connor has ever met. He loves Disney far more than Connor realized when they first started hanging out. It’s sweet and endearing, the way he talks about his first trip to Disney World and how magical it was, and how he genuinely, without a thread of sarcasm, thought Uganda was going to be like _The Lion King_. 

He is both clumsy and careful, rough around the edges and yet so impossibly delicate. And he’s caring. So unbelievably caring. And slightly secretive, about certain things. He tells Connor so much about his parents and his siblings and his childhood, but it’s everything Kevin _doesn’t_ say about them that intrigues him the most. The way he’ll go quiet mid-conversation or look away in the middle of an otherwise seemingly innocuous story, as though he has to keep himself from revealing too much. But his eyes are an open book. He’s both ridiculously transparent and ridiculously hard to read at the same time. An enigma. 

It scares Connor, sometimes, this whole thing they are doing. He can only allow it to go so far. He has strayed from the path, yes, but he can’t stray _that_ far. The consequences would be dire, if he allows that to happen. A domino effect. 

The first to go would be his walls, and then his parents and his baby sister and the college money they have put aside for his education. He would be kicked out of the Church he’s belonged to his entire life. His father would see to that, just as he saw to his son being appointed to District Leader despite his lack of missionary experience. District Leaders were typically veteran missionaries with at least a year of service under their belts, but Connor was just a nineteen-year-old newbie when his father got him the position. His father is second counselor of their ward, working directly under the bishop. He knows Kevin’s father is a rank above that in their own ward in Layton, Utah, but still, second counselor is nothing to balk at. His father has a great deal of influence in the Church and wouldn’t take kindly to his only son tarnishing his good name. 

And Connor has already been through quite enough of that. He can only let Kevin in so far because any further and he might do something he’ll regret for the rest of his life. He’s come close a couple of times, when Kevin has given him one of those _looks_ that doesn’t seem entirely platonic, when he’s gazed into Connor’s eyes for far too long while laying opposite each other in the toolshed. Connor sometimes finds himself involuntarily responding by tilting his head just so, in the way one might do right as they are about to lay a kiss on the other person’s lips.

But he never lets himself actually _do_ it. He _can’t_. Not only would Kevin probably not like it or want it—as he still doesn’t know if Kevin has feelings for him, or for men at all—but he simply cannot go down that road again. The last time he expressed interest in a member of the same sex, when he was eleven and told his mother how he felt about Steve, it nearly gave his parents a heart attack. They sent him for counselling with Bishop Hansen, who didn’t do anything to him physically, and it wasn’t exactly what you’d call conversion therapy, but their sessions always left him with a profound sense of shame and guilt, instilling a sense of fear into him that only grew deeper with time. He had vowed to change, after that. He never wanted to see that anger in his father’s eyes or hear the disappointment in his mother’s voice ever again. 

Which is why he needs to keep a level head about him, now. He must stay the course, even if it means feeling like… _this_. 

“I used to run whenever I felt scared,” Kevin tells him when they get to their destination, a long stretch of road that leads to the river. “That’s why I joined the track team,” he explains. “Things were getting pretty bad at home, my parents were fighting all the time. Dad was really stressed out at work and Church and I didn’t really want to go home. I only joined track so that I’d have something to do after school, so that I wouldn’t get home until dinner was almost ready.”

Connor’s brow furrows in concern. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Kevin says. “It helped me learn that I actually really like running.”

“You do?” Connor blinks, then shudders. “I couldn’t imagine ever liking running.” 

“No, I swear, it’s _such_ a great high.”

“Really?”

“Definitely. There’s nothing like taking off and running as fast as you possibly can until you collapse from exhaustion.” Connor is horrified, though he supposes that _is_ kind of what he does whenever he goes into a cleaning trance. Kevin shrugs, then smiles. “Wanna do it?”

Connor narrows his eyes. “Do I wanna do _what_?”

“Run.”

He makes a face. “Um. No offense, but I’d rather eat glass.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“Like, actual glass.”

“You’re gonna _love_ it, I promise,” Kevin assures him, extending a hand in what has become his little _you’re doing this thing with me whether you like it or not_ gesture. “It’s gonna be a blast. Trust me.”

Connor rolls his eyes because he honestly, truly, would rather do _anything_ on God's green Earth than go for a _run_ , but the problem is that Connor _does_ trust him—has trusted him, with literally his life—and that stupidly bright twinkle in Kevin’s eyes simply won’t allow him to say no. 

“ _Fine_ ,” he sighs and latches onto Kevin’s hand, allowing himself to be pulled over to what he guesses is going to be their ‘starting’ location. He shields his eyes from the glare of the sun when Kevin comes to a stop, gazing out at the seemingly endless expanse. He can’t even see the river from here. 

“Alright, so we’re going to take off and run as fast as we possibly can all the way to the water. The more wild you run and the more you let loose, the more fun it’ll be,” Kevin informs him. “Don’t take it too seriously, but also _don’t_ stop.”

“Okay…?”

“And then we’re going to jump in.”

Connor wrinkles his face. “ _What_?”

“Alright,” Kevin says, ignoring Connor’s protest, “On your mark…”

“I am _not_ jumping in the river.” 

“Get set.”

“I don’t even have a bathing suit.”

“Go!”

And then Kevin is off, running wildly in the direction of the river, and Connor has no choice but to do the same. At first, he feels ridiculously silly, as he doesn’t have the best running posture and his arms are kind of floppy, flailing all over the place, but a few minutes later and he finds himself laughing—actually _laughing_ —just as Kevin said he would. 

Kevin turns around at the sound, a giant grin on his face as he slows down and continues to run backwards. He’s moving _backwards_ , the smug running bastard. He latches onto Connor’s hand as he runs past and they don’t stop running until they reach the riverbank.

“Oh, god.” Connor stops and bends down, clutching at his chest the moment they get to the water. “ _Air,”_ he gasps, fanning desperately at his face. His shirt is completely drenched in sweat. “I need air.”

Kevin smiles. “Feel any better?”

Connor heaves in a deep breath as he wills his body back to an upright position. He thinks on the question for a moment. As difficult as it is to catch his breath, he has to admit that he _does_ feel pretty damn good. He laughed— _really_ laughed—with his entire heart, for perhaps the first time in weeks. His body feels sore, yes, but also strong and useful, like it can take care of itself if need be. And he kind of liked that for a few blessed minutes while he was running, everything bad in the world just kind of melted away into the background, temporarily blocked out by the music of their combined laughter, the rhythm of their feet pounding against the dirt, and his competitive desire to keep up with Kevin as they ran.

He nods, his breaths still coming in slightly labored and uneven. “Yeah, that was alright.”

“Told ya.” Kevin grins. “Now, come on.” He grabs hold of Connor’s hand and gently pulls him in the direction of the water. “The best time to jump in is _right_ after a run.” 

“Jump in?” Connor pants as he lets Kevin pull him. That’s sort of become their thing: Kevin pulls and Connor resists. Then Kevin pulls some more and Connor eventually gives in. “I thought you were joking about that.” 

“What?” Kevin laughs. “No, I wasn’t joking.”

“But we’re—” 

He goes to say _fully dressed_ —in collared shirts and pleated pants, no less—when he realizes that Kevin is no longer any of that. His recently-discarded shoes are rolling haphazardly down the hill that leads to the river’s edge, his shirt and garment top have been cast aside, and now he’s going for his—oh _God_.

“What are you doing?” Connor feels instantly lightheaded as he backs away, eyes flickering up and around and down. He can’t— _they_ can’t. It’s not ri—

And then his eyes land on Kevin’s collarbone. Strange how he can feel terrified one minute and hot and bothered the next.

Kevin goes for his belt. There is a _pop_ , then a metallic clanging sound as he pulls his pants down. Connor once again feels dizzy, like he might actually faint and collapse to the ground, and he’s fairly certain it isn’t from the running. He nearly does just that when Kevin notices and catches him before he falls. 

“Whoa,” he worriedly breathes into Connor’s ear as he steadies him in his arms. “What’s going on? Are you alright?”

The voice fades into the distance as the blackness threatens to take him and Connor can’t form words, but he does manage to shake his head. 

He isn’t even sure what is happening, only that he can’t think, can’t move, can’t speak. The sound of the buckle popping open with a clang rings in his ears over and over again and all he can think about is the General and the General’s _hands_ ; the sound of the guard removing his pants and how all he could think about in that moment were his parents and his little sister and how he didn’t even know what he had done to deserve the torment he was about to receive. All he knew was that it was happening, that there was a gun pressed into the back of his skull, and how there wasn’t anything he could do to stop it. And then—

And then Kevin. Kevin who saved him. Kevin who took care of him. Kevin who would never hurt him. Kevin who is here with him, right now. 

With a deep, shaky breath, Connor slowly wills his head back up and faces Kevin. His dark brown eyes are brimming with concern, his hands gripping tightly to Connor’s arms. 

“Where did you go just now?” He asks, a glimmer of deep-seated worry visible and tangible in his eyes, as though if Connor wanted to, he could just reach out and _touch_ it.

He doesn’t think anyone has ever looked at him quite like that, with such obvious concern. Not his teachers, when they watched him get picked on in school, nor his so-called ‘friends’, who Connor knew all talked about him behind his back whenever he wasn’t around. Not even the parents who birthed him. This concern is all-encompassing and genuine. Genuine like Kevin. He never thought he’d say those two words together without snorting at the irony, but he doesn’t find anything funny about them, now.

“Nowhere,” Connor lies, though he’s still struggling to stand without Kevin’s assistance. “I’m fine. Just not used to running, I guess.”

Kevin doesn’t look as though he believes him, as even an untrained, unathletic nineteen-year-old wouldn’t have _that_ much difficulty running a short distance, but he doesn’t pry any further. He’s good like that. 

Connor’s eyes once again land on Kevin’s slightly-protruding collarbone as he regains his balance. His gaze slowly drifts down the length of his bare torso, lingering for a moment on each muscular indentation that adorns his lightly-tanned chest. 

He’s never seen this much of Kevin’s skin before, especially not up _close_ like this, and it takes him a minute before he manages to snap himself out of it. He blinks, once again realizing that this man—this very _not_ attractive man—is standing just inches away from his person, wearing nothing but his partially-transparent _garment bottoms_ and Connor finds himself at a loss for words. 

“Sorry,” Kevin says with a light blush, as if he had just read Connor’s mind. “I just—I don’t want to swim in my dress pants.” He swallows hard and gestures with his hand. “But you can, if you want. I won’t stop you.” 

Connor’s cheeks burn hotter than the sun and he stays quiet for a moment, not knowing what on Earth to do. He had expected to be sweaty and tired and gross from all that running, yes, and maybe he was even fine with jumping in the river to cool off, but he hadn’t considered… _this_. It seems to be so easy for Kevin to just... throw off his clothes with a broad smile, the excitement of jumping in the river enough to push his insecurities and self-consciousness to the side. But Connor isn’t like that. He’s never been like that, even before the General. And now it’s just… well, it’s even worse, now.

“Sorry,” Kevin apologizes, seeming to realize how uncomfortable all of this is making Connor. “I didn’t even… I didn’t even _think_ how weird this might be for you after…” He closes his eyes and pulls slightly on his hair. “Sorry. I should’ve thought this through before…” He sighs. “I just thought it might be fun.” 

“It will be,” Connor says, forcing himself to nod and regain some composure. “I might just leave my shirt on, if that’s okay.”

“Of course!” Kevin practically jumps at the chance to say. “Wear as much as you want.”

Connor’s cheeks must be the color of beets by now. There is a lump in the back of his throat and he closes his eyes, to try and regain his faculties. This entire thing is just so _awkward_. 

“Do you mind, um—?” He gestures blindly with his hand. “It might be easier for me if you turn around. I know it’s stupid, I just—”

“No, no, it’s not stupid,” Kevin is quick to assure him. “It’s not stupid at all.” 

When Connor opens his eyes, he finds Kevin facing the other way, a pair of nervous eyes seemingly glued to the array of trees that line the riverbank. Kevin’s cheeks look the way Connor feels and it’s a small solace. At least he isn’t alone in this. 

He nervously removes his shoes, then his socks, and finally his pants, his hands trembling as he pulls them down over his ankles. He sticks out a leg and frowns. It’s pale and thick and covered in tiny red pimples. He didn’t get a good look at them before, but he bets Kevin’s legs are tan. Tan and clear. 

The reminder that Kevin has seen much more of him than just his legs sends a cold ripple of humiliation down his spine.

He sighs and yanks down on his white, button-down shirt, stretching it as far as it will go over his thighs. It’s long enough that it covers most of his undergarments and he thinks it’s big enough to hide his muffin top. He takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes. He can do this. Everything is fine. It’s fine. 

He walks up behind Kevin a moment later and taps him on the shoulder. Startled, he whirls back around and meets Connor’s eyes. 

“So, what’s the best way to do this?” Connor nervously clears his throat, just to break the newly formed ice. “Do we just... jump right in? Also, are their fish in this river? Because I don’t do fish.”

“Yes and yes,” Kevin says with a cheeky-looking smile. 

He then takes Connor’s trembling hand and brings him about a foot closer to the river’s edge, where rocks and crimson-colored dirt meet surprisingly deep water. It looks reasonably clear and blue despite some green algae and silhouettes of tiny fish he can see swimming around beneath. It stretches wide and long, so long Connor cannot see the ends of it. The current seems almost non-existent and so he doesn’t think they will get carted away to the neighboring village or anything like that. There is a gleaming waterfall in the far end of what is visible. The sun is high in the sky, radiating the shimmering blue water with its rays and if Connor didn’t know any better, he’d swear it was a painting. 

He stares out at the scene in awe, not realizing that he is still absentmindedly pulling at the hem of his shirt, trying to make sure it covers the front of his garments. 

“Ready?” Kevin flashes him an excited grin. Connor gives him a weak smile and nods in reply, trying to control another blush when Kevin takes his hand again. “On three, okay? One, two… _three!_ ”

They get a bit of a running start, jumping as high as they possibly can once they reach the edge of the river, keeping their hands latched together as their bodies fly swiftly through the air. 

The feeling is exhilarating and freeing, just as Kevin said it would be, lasting both a fraction of a second and an eternity at the same time. They both break out into fits of laughter as the cool water hits their warm bodies and all of Connor’s former worries about belly fat and leg pimples and the General get washed away with the water and the sound of Kevin’s laugh. He’s quickly learning how much he loves that sound. In the few normal days Kevin spent on his mission before all of this, Connor is certain he never heard him laugh. He barely even smiled. It’s ironic, that it took such a horrible event to finally coax it out of him. 

“Oh, gosh,” Connor gasps, struggling to keep himself afloat in the rather deep water with his pathetic little doggy paddle. He shivers. “It’s so _cold_.”

“I would say it’s more _invigorating_ than cold,” Kevin rebuts, still laughing through the words as he performs a flawless backstroke deeper into the water. 

“I forgot to mention,” Connor spits out a mouthful of river as he continues to frantically tread water, “I’m not exactly the greatest swimmer.” 

“Seriously?” Kevin laughs, and then he’s already back at Connor’s side in a few broad swim strokes. “What did you do, fail gym class as a kid?”

“Very funny,” Connor sneers as he frantically dog paddles with his hands to try and stay above water. “And _no_ ,” he adds. “Though I was notorious for forgetting my gym clothes and refused to use those gross communal showers.” 

An unexpected laugh mixed with rogue sprays of river water comes bursting out of Kevin at the confession. And then he’s wrapping an arm around Connor’s waist a moment later and hoisting him up. The touch draws a sharp breath into his lungs as Kevin’s hand comes into contact with the bare skin of his waist, his useless cotton shirt much more adept at floating than he is. But Kevin is still laughing and doesn’t seem to notice. That’s okay, Connor thinks. Better that he doesn’t. 

Kevin props him up to keep him from sinking and the _hands_ that keep on sending rapid pulses of electricity up and down his core at lightning-fast speeds are now gripping onto his hips, presumably in an attempt to steady him. 

Kevin’s hands. Kevin’s _hands_ are on him. There is a reason he doesn’t allow this kind of thing. Because he knows that if he does, then _it’s_ going to happen. It’s inevitable. And then… yes. Yes, it’s happening and there isn’t anything he can do about it. It’s all so familiar to him. The guilt. The shame. The racing heartbeat. The urge to start grinding against something, _anything_ , to relieve the stiff curse in his undergarments.

He honestly half-expected himself to flinch at the touch and push Kevin away, as his responses to this kind of close contact have become somewhat unpredictable. He wasn’t sure if he was going to jump at Kevin’s touch or melt right into it. And he certainly didn’t expect the accompanied feelings of warmth and safety Kevin’s hands seem to be providing him. Part of him wishes he _had_ pushed Kevin away, despite its implications. It would have been so much easier to deal with than _this_. 

“Are you alright?” Kevin asks, prompting Connor to snap out of it and his eyes to come back into focus. There is water dripping down Kevin’s ridiculously proportionate face and a pair of lightly chiseled arms are wrapped snugly around his waist. His heart feels as though it might explode right out of his chest and this idiot has the nerve to ask him if he’s _alright_.

 _No_ , he thinks. _I’m not alright. I’ve never been alright._

“I’m fine,” he says, instead, but the words are pinched in his throat. He clears it and says, “I think I can handle it on my own if you wanna just…” he gestures for Kevin to let him go, “you know, put me down.” 

Once again, Kevin’s face falls in that way it does whenever he realizes he acted without thinking. A common occurrence. 

“Oh. Of course. I'm sorry,” Kevin stammers and gently lets him go. “I wasn’t trying to… I just didn't want you to drown, that’s all.”

“I’ll be fine,” Connor says, relief permeating every square inch of his body as they untangle from one another, and the problem in his pants is safely away from Kevin. “I’m quite the expert dog paddler.”

Kevin frowns as he watches Connor scramble manically with his hands just to keep his mouth an inch or so above water. 

“You look like you’re drowning.” 

“No, no.” Connor shakes his head, already feeling tired from all the paddling. “You’re confusing _drowning_ with a desperate attempt to stay afloat. They aren’t the same thing.”

“You sure about that?” Kevin asks skeptically as Connor’s mouth sinks below the water level for the third time in a row. 

He answers a pitiful _yes_ through the water and Kevin’s magical laugh once again fills his ears. It quickly becomes apparent, however, that despite his laughter and gentle teasing, Kevin makes sure to never drift more than three feet away from him at any given moment, and he seems to keep a _very_ close eye on Connor’s mouth-to-water proximity the entire time they stay in the river. 

They don’t get out until the sun begins to set over the horizon. The water was so _cold_ and yet still managed to leave Connor with a strangely warm feeling bubbling in his chest; the same one he felt whenever Kevin laughed from the far depths of his throat or splashed Connor with water or insisted on holding him up during the very few times he may have _actually_ been drowning. 

These days of freedom are nice, Connor thinks as they trudge back to the house, hand-in-hand and soaked to the bone. He doesn’t know how they’ll manage to explain their appearance to the other Elders, but he doesn’t really care. Not anymore. These days with Kevin are _nice_ , despite the fact that they are finite, the remainder of which keeps on dwindling with each passing day. 

He knows their time together—at least in _this_ context—is limited. A vacation, a detour, a temporary reprieve. They are still members of the Church. They are still on their mission. They are still trying to avoid being reprimanded or sent back home in disgrace. Kevin will eventually ship off to Orlando, if all goes well with the Mission President. Connor will resume his District Leader duties and rejoin his companion in the field. Life will go back to normal. 

But regardless of whether they last for just one and a half more weeks or if they go on for a lifetime, these days with Kevin are indubitably, unquestioningly _nice_. The nicest Connor has ever spent, accidental boners and panic attacks and awkward conversations and all. 

* * *

They have to go to the market to buy supplies for the big baptism event coming up in just over a week, but Connor doesn’t feel up to going. Kevin doesn’t need to ask why and he doesn’t press him on the matter. 

Elder McKinley cites that it isn’t safe for any one Elder to go alone and since Kevin and Arnold are the ones closest to the whole thing, it makes sense for them to go together. 

Kevin knows that Connor has to say that in front of the others, even though they both know that getting the villagers interested in the Church has been Elder Cunningham’s solo show from the beginning. But Connor still seems hellbent on keeping up pretenses. He supposes it must be that extra helping of responsibility he feels from being the District Leader. Kevin can understand that. But he just can’t bring himself to _care_ about any of this. Not anymore. And it’s only becoming increasingly hard for him to pretend that he does. 

“I’m not mad at you anymore, you know,” Kevin says to Elder Cunningham, both of their butts bouncing up and down off the seat as the minibus they are riding in rolls down the rocky dirt road. He turns to Arnold and tries to speak as sincerely as possible. “About the baptisms or the villagers or the way you’ve basically done everything I was supposed to do.”

“Uhhh...” Arnold’s eyes go wide with surprise. “You’re not?”

“No.” Kevin wraps an arm around his shoulders, giving him a squeeze. “I’m not.” 

Arnold practically beams in response, seeming overjoyed at Kevin’s admittance, and they spend the rest of the bus ride to the market talking, mostly about whatever pops into Arnold’s head at any given moment. 

Kevin doesn’t tell him that the reason for his forgiveness has less to do with him getting over himself and more to do with his newfound clarity about the Church, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter—the result is the same, regardless. 

“So, how are things going with Elder McKinley?” Arnold asks during a brief lull in the conversation. The name alone is enough to catch Kevin’s attention, pulling his lips into an involuntary smile, but then Arnold follows it up with a cheerful “Gotten anyone interested in the Church?” and Kevin’s smile instantly falters.

Right. As far as his companion—well, _former_ companion—is concerned, that’s all he and Elder McKinley have been doing: spreading the word and trying to get baptisms. 

Part of him aches to tell Arnold the truth. To tell him that he hasn’t been proselytizing at all. That he’s actually been getting to know Connor as a person instead of in the limited way the Church would have them get to know each other. He wants to tell him about the toolshed and the coffee and the river and everything else they’ve done over the past few weeks.

“Things are going great.” Kevin clears his throat and turns back to the seat in front of him. “We’ve been making some really good progress in Luambo,” he lies, referring to the next village over that he and Elder McKinley are supposed to be proselytizing in. “How are things going with _Nabulungi_?” He changes the topic with a knowing smile. 

They aren’t even supposed to be having crushes or love interests or anything of the sort while on their mission, but Kevin knows that Arnold isn’t your typical, run-of-the-mill missionary—he hasn’t even _read_ the Book of Mormon, after all—and his attraction to Nabulungi has been quite obvious from day one.

Arnold’s face lights up at the mention of her name and he goes on and on and _on_ about how smart she is and how beautiful she is and how every time he’s with her, he feels like he might actually vomit. But, like, the _good_ kind of vomit, he clarifies. 

Kevin’s eyes go wide. He didn’t even know there _was_ a good kind of vomit. Upon further reflection, he supposes his tummy _has_ felt pretty weird around Connor, especially over these past two weeks. He always just figured it was gas or perhaps a nasty side effect from all that coffee he’s been drinking, but Arnold’s description of heart flutters and butterflies in his stomach and a pressure like someone is standing on his chest _does_ seem awfully familiar. He would hardly call that _good_ , though he can kind of see what Arnold means.

Arnold sure is an odd one, he thinks as he watches him wave his hands around, squealing in that high-pitched way he does as he babbles on about the way Nabulungi smells, how the sight of her smile is enough to make him break out into giggles, and how the softness of her skin makes him feel like he might have a heart attack. 

As he listens to Arnold yammer on and on, he can’t help but wonder if his feelings for Connor are at all comparable. Because the truth is: Kevin doesn’t quite understand what it is he’s feeling for Connor. It feels like more than one should feel for a platonic friend, but he’s never really _liked_ anyone before, so how is he even supposed to _know_? 

He remembers thinking a few boys from choir were kind of cute, back when he was younger, but only in the transient, passing sense. He never felt compelled to spend time with any of them outside of Church or get to know them in any meaningful way. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be having those kinds of thoughts in the first place and so he always just pushed them out of his mind. It was easy to push them aside, back then, as he was much too focused on himself, his goals, to give it any more thought than that. 

He supposes that’s a bit weird, now that he really thinks about it. He bets Arnold and Connor and probably all of the other Elders have had all _sorts_ of crushes on people growing up. So, why didn’t Kevin? Was he really that self-absorbed, focused solely on serving God and his mission? Or was it something else, entirely? 

This is all so new to him, he thinks mournfully: the idea of _liking_ someone beyond a passing thought or relatively meaningless friendship. He thinks he might feel for Connor the way Arnold feels for Nabulungi, though his physical reactions to being in his vicinity have been slightly less… _visceral_ than Arnold’s, though not by much. 

He likes spending time with Connor. Likes listening to him talk with that soft, gentle voice of his, especially when it’s accompanied by a smile or a laugh. He likes Connor’s laugh. He likes Connor’s laugh a _lot_. And he likes simply watching him. It doesn’t even matter what he’s doing: reading, listening to music, dancing and singing to himself in that way he does, picking a hangnail off his finger. All of it. Anything. He doesn’t even mind when Connor teases him (and he _does_ like to tease him). He used to be sensitive to that sort of thing, but it feels different with Connor. Everything does.

He blushes when he thinks back to their little foray in the river, how he felt _something_ … both down _there_ and all over his body, like pleasant little tingles, when he thought Connor was drowning and wrapped his arms around his waist. He can’t remember the last time another human being made him _feel_ like that. He honestly isn’t sure anyone ever has. He’s gotten boners before, of course, but they were typically meaningless: feeling a little stiff upon waking up or blinking his eyes open after a certain kind of dream. But _this_ … this was different. This was very, _very_ different.

His stomach twists with the realization that his thoughts _do_ kind of sound like Arnold when he talks about Nabulungi. But even if he _does_ like Connor in that way and even if he _does_ decide he’s ready to break the laws of chastity and homosexuality, what the heck is he supposed to _do_ about it? He doesn’t even know if Connor feels the same way. He thinks there’s a _chance_ he might, but Connor also has the most confusing tendency to go all hot and cold on him.

That’s probably just his _turn it off_ mindset talking, Kevin tells himself with an internal sigh. But what if it isn’t? What if he just… _doesn’t_ like him like that? Kevin has never dabbled in romantic matters before. He doesn’t know how any of this is supposed to work or what signs he’s supposed to be looking out for or what he’s supposed to do about it even if the feelings _are_ mutual. And that’s not even to _mention_ the additional complication surrounding their recent ordeal, and the after-effects Connor seems to be suffering that are only growing more and more apparent to Kevin with each passing day.

He knows Connor has had crushes on boys before (he told them as much their first night in Uganda), but that doesn’t mean he feels anything for _Kevin_. Connor is so closed off, it’s difficult to tell _what_ he feels, if he feels anything at all. Kevin is usually pretty good at seeing through his walls, at hearing all of the things he thinks but chooses not to say, but Kevin doesn’t have any experience reading these _particular_ kinds of signals and is honestly at a loss. 

He pushes the thoughts aside for now and focuses his attention back on Arnold, who is still gabbing about how Nabulungi can sing and play the flute and did he know her middle name is _Donbee_?

Kevin is certain he’s pronouncing it wrong, just like he always mispronounces her first name, but he supposes it’s the sentiment that counts. 

“Denbay,” Arnold says dreamily, grinning as he leans back in his seat. “How pretty is that?”

Kevin rolls his eyes, as he pronounced it totally different that time, but Arnold’s enthusiasm for Nabulungi is still pretty freakin’ adorable, nonetheless. Enough to keep him smiling and even laughing, on occasion, during the rest of the ride to the market, despite the growing realization in the pit of his stomach that he may, in fact, like Connor McKinley in the _like_ -like, potentially good vomit sense. 

-

They wander around the market and manage to find most of the supplies they’ll need for the baptism celebration. Flour for cookies and baked goods. Markers and cloth to make the welcome banner. Wood. Because apparently Elder Michaels is going to make something out of wood. 

They have all sorts of odds and ends, here, Kevin notes as he peruses the aisles, but there are also a few unsavory types lurking about. People keep trying to aggressively sell him things and he’s already gotten propositioned for sex by three different women. No wonder Nabulungi told Connor her father doesn’t want her coming here by herself, he thinks as he dodges yet another hustler trying to peddle some overpriced merchandise. But it’s also filled with lots of interesting handmade trinkets and crafts, reminiscent of the big flea market in Provo his mother used to take him to every year when he was a kid. 

His eyes go wide when he spots a quiet, homely-looking woman in the back selling handmade instruments. He wanders in the direction of the booth, eyes darting over the contents of the display. He spots a wooden flute-like instrument which resembles the one Nabulungi played the night they spent with the Hatimbis and his lips curve into a smile. He knows how much Connor is enjoying his lessons with Nabulungi, but he still doesn’t have his own flute to practice with when he’s not with her. This is something nice he can do for Connor, to maybe cheer him up a little. To make him smile. And he wants more than anything to do exactly that.

“How much for the, um—” He can’t remember what it’s called. “For that one?” He points to the sleek, mahogany instrument with five holes down the middle. “The flute?”

“Thirty-eight,” the woman says with a polite smile, undoubtedly referring to thirty-eight thousand Ugandan shillings (or, roughly ten American dollars). Kevin frowns and opens his wallet. He only has thirty-five on him as he already gave the rest to Elder Cunningham to help buy the supplies. 

“How about thirty-five?” He holds up the money, putting on that sweet, innocent missionary smile they taught him at the MTC.

The woman frowns. “Thirty- _eight_.”

Kevin sighs. He looks down at his insufficient funds and then back up at the display, where he once again eyes the flute. “How about I give you thirty-five now and then pay you the rest next time I’m here?”

“You will not pay me next time,” she waves him off. “They never do.”

“Actually, I will,” Kevin says, sincerely. “Do you see this?” He points to his _Elder Price_ name badge. “I’m a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. That means I’m not allowed to lie or steal or cheat or do anything like that.”

It’s not entirely true, as the Church can’t really stop them from doing any of those things, but being a Mormon has never really come in handy for him before and he hopes that maybe it will, just this once. Besides, Kevin Price always makes good on his word and if he says he’ll pay her next time, he _will_ pay her next time. 

The woman leans over and runs a slow finger over his badge. She looks up at him, eyes sharp and discerning, as if trying to read him.

“Okay, _Jesus man_ ,” she teases, and Kevin winces a little at the name. She smiles and sits back down in her seat. “You pay thirty-five now, but the next time you are in here, I want my other three.” 

Kevin sighs with relief. “You got it,” he says, and he can’t help but beam when she hands him the instrument.

-

They are sitting in the toolshed the following morning, two cups of hot, steaming coffee cooling beside them. Kevin still takes his black and Connor has reduced his milk and sugar intake to a quick dollop and a respectable one and a half packets.

Connor is across from him, leaning back against the wall and fiddling with his brand new flute.

To say he was shocked yesterday afternoon when Kevin presented the surprise gift to him would be an understatement. He seemed extremely confused, at first—almost borderline upset, even—until Kevin assured him that it only cost the equivalent of ten U.S. dollars, which is _nothing_ compared to the thousands of dollars he has saved up to use on his mission. Not to mention it was, like, _right there_ in front of him at the market.

“What was I supposed to do? _Not_ get it for you?” He jokingly asked to try and calm him down.

Connor nodded and thanked him for the gift, but still looked more touched and emotional over it than Kevin had expected him to be. 

He sure seems happy with it today, though, as he keeps on gazing down at it, occasionally smoothing a thoughtful hand over the wood with a smile. Kevin has taken to bouncing the tattered basketball between each of his hands as he watches him, much as he always does whenever he’s thinking. 

“Play me something,” Kevin says, lazily kicking his head back against the dusty wall of the shed.

“I only know Hot Cross Buns.”

“So, play Hot Cross Buns.”

Connor smiles and shakes his head, a tint of pink coloring the visible portion of his face. “It’s silly.”

“So what?” Kevin returns the smile and shrugs a shoulder. “Just play it.”

Connor rolls his eyes and, with a deepening flush, lifts the flute to his mouth and settles it against his lips. He turns it slightly forward, blowing bits of air into the hole, as if refusing to make any actual sound until he’s certain it’s in the right position.

Kevin finds his eyes drawn to Connor’s face as the sweet sound of music fills the tiny shed. He falls into a kind of trance as he watches him, admiring the intense, focused look in his eyes as he plays, the way the muscles of his lips purse together to make such a beautiful sound. He’s gone from zero to sixty in such a short amount of time. It’s amazing, actually. _Connor_ is amazing.

He never thought it would be possible for him to be so transfixed by something as simple as Hot Cross Buns and yet here he is, completely and utterly mesmerized. 

“That was beautiful,” Kevin says, sincerely, when the music comes to a slow stop. 

“That was not _beautiful_.” Connor smirks and crawls closer to where Kevin is sitting. “That was _Hot Cross Buns_.”

He smooths a pale hand over Kevin’s forehead, gently brushing back the fringe of hair that’s always flopping down over his eyes. The touch is electric and when Connor removes his hand, all Kevin can think about is him doing it again. And again, and again. 

He feels quite drunk, despite never having touched a drop of alcohol in his life. But he _is_ drunk. Drunk on coffee. Drunk on freedom. Drunk on Connor. 

“Well, maybe it's only beautiful when you play it,” the words fall off his tongue without his consent, his lips still stretched into what has _got_ to be the dopiest-looking smile. 

Connor’s smile, on the other hand, instantly falters the moment the accidental and probably inappropriate compliment hits his ears. His eyes go wide with panic and then he’s standing up and brushing off his pants before Kevin can process what’s happening.

The abrupt shift in mood pulls him back to reality and he quickly jumps to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers and reaches out to Connor, only to trip over his own feet as he falls forward. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no, of course not.” Connor nervously shakes his head as he backs up toward the door. “I just remembered there’s something very important I need to do back at the house.” His words come out in a flustered stutter and it becomes painfully obvious to Kevin that he is lying. “I’ll see you later, okay?” 

And then the door slams shut behind him, his brand new flute and steaming cup of hot coffee still sitting on the floor. Kevin falls back against the wall and closes his eyes with a sigh. 

“Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I know this chapter was mostly from Connor’s POV (except for the last couple of bits), but we will get more of Kevin in the next chapter. I really really REALLY need to update Second Star next and so I will be taking a short break from this fic in order to finish up Chapter 17 of that one, but please know I am VERRRRY excited to get to working on Chapter 7 of this fic and so I’m hoping it won’t be too long before the next update! 
> 
> I want to give an extra special thanks to the people who take the time to comment on each chapter. It takes me a long time to write and edit these, so you have no idea how much it means to me. <3


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